


House of Pandora

by Ledaeus



Series: Greater Virtues of Criminality [4]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Clockwork Soldiers, Cuddles, Emotional Whump, Fluff, Hallucinations, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Let's be real this is going to be graphically violent, M/M, Murder, Murder House, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Starvation, dead bodies, mentions of suicide pacts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 131,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ledaeus/pseuds/Ledaeus
Summary: Garrett, less than a day after losing his home, has been forced to escape the escalating conflict in the City and is sailing towards Dunwall. Corvo, having spent the last two years trying to revive Emily from Delilah's curse, is trying to hold the Empire together and stop Dunwall falling into ruin.Word of a party where only the richest and most influential have been invited is enticing for Garrett - drunk men aren't as careful to protect their valuables from skilled larceners - but a chore for Corvo, and their shared fate forces them to face their demons from the past.





	1. Prologue: Still Not Fish Food

Four hours of hell.

 _Only_ four hours of hell, and several days to go, judging by what little he had picked up from the crew on the ship. 

Garrett had always known he hated boats, but had never actually stayed on one for an extended period of time. Now he knew why. It hadn’t been the lack of need, or the money, or the instability, or the insecurity, no. No.

It was the seasickness. And he was suffering terribly for it.

It was a miracle that he had ever gotten away from the Baroness when he did. A remarkable stroke of luck which had occurred at _just_ the right moment and given him the opening that he so desperately needed. A thread that had been offered to him by the grace of the gods, onto which he had clung for dear life. But if he wasn’t _suffering_ for it now.

He found that, as they sailed further and further away from the City on what looked like a moderately large fishing boat, the pain that wrapped itself around the right side of his head lifted more and more, but the blessed hollow that had been left by its disappearance had been replaced without hesitation by nausea and stomach cramps and dizziness. He had found a room somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship which contained several benches, and believing the room to be vacant, he had set up shop underneath the closest bench to the door, shivering and clutching his stomach.

With each pitch and roll of the boat, with each clap of the waves on the sides, he wasn’t sure which, he pressed himself in tighter, clutched his stomach harder and breathed hard through his nose, forcibly suppressing the nausea threatening to come up. If he could hazard a guess, the room was roughly at the waterline, although it wouldn’t surprise him if they were periodically dipping underneath it. It was so cold, yet so warm at the same time.

The room wasn’t exactly well-kept either. Poorly disguised orange-brown rust seeped from the welded partitions and broad bolts in the walls. The benches, although wooden and relatively new, looked like they had been warped from the effects of saltwater. The light flickered on and off with a high frequency, although that might just have been the fact that they were fluorescent strips rather than a failing power supply. He pressed his eyes shut and tucked his head into his chest, hiding. He had found himself increasingly sensitive to light changes recently, and although he had just shaken off his last migraine, he couldn’t afford to take ill with another. If that was the case, then why not just throw himself overboard? The universe was clearly out to get him either way.

He sighed. Moaned. Held his bag tight to his chest, cursing Basso for coercing him into eating. Ignored the fact that they were heading for Dunwall, pushed it down, down, down until there was nothing but him and the darkness and the nausea.

Surely there would be another ship he could take when he got to Dunwall. It wouldn’t be too hard to get out, would it? The thought of another week or so of boat journeys forced a grimace onto his face. He would go for it, if he could face it.

What he hadn’t realised was that the bench which he had been hiding under turned out to be a bunk, and the room was full of bunks. He had been hearing men laughing, joking and talking, walking past the windowed door as he cowered away from his nausea, but he hadn’t expected any of them to walk in. He especially hadn’t expected one to spot him.

There was a _scrape_ and a _groan_ as the heavy door was unlocked and then opened. Garrett froze where he lay, allowing one eye to open and observe his surroundings. A moment of silence as a pair of feet shuffled to and fro in the room, collecting items, maybe getting changed, maybe washing, and then a gasp. A pair of shocked brown eyes. A bushy beard and a shaven head.

_Please don’t scream, please don’t scream, please don’t scream._

Garrett snapped his eyes shut again and willed himself out of there. When he opened them he was still curled up underneath the bunk, and the man looking in at him was still there… looking in at him. Garrett scowled. He wasn’t in a state to run or fight right now. The day of cold and starvation fleeing from the Baroness’ men had left him weak as a kitten, despite the few mouthfuls of stew Basso had convinced him to choke down - all he could do was hope that this stranger wasn’t hostile.

There was a grunt and the stranger appeared to drop to his knees.

A huge, hair-backed hand worked its way under the bunk and Garrett frantically shuffled away from it, pressing his back into the furthest corner he could find, hissing. The hand worked its way around for a few seconds before it withdrew, and the pair of eyes were looking in at him again, concerned.

It was unlikely to work, but it was worth a shot. “Leave me alone.” Garrett said, but his voice was weaker than he had intended it to sound, cracked, pale and faint. There was a huff from the other man, and he groaned to his feet again, shuffled off.

That was odd.

Garrett hoped that he wasn’t about to bring anyone back when he did return… In fact, he hoped the man wouldn’t return at all. He hoped he’d found his way back up to deck and fallen over into the sea. Would that be so much to ask? For something to go his way for once in his life? He resumed his foetal position, clutching his stomach. There was no way he was going to get any sleep under here, but he decided to try anyway.

He found himself slowly drifting into a half-asleep state where reality merged into dreams. The lapping of waves on the side of the boat became the clocktower as it trembled and collapsed around him. The cawing of the gulls above became Erin’s frantic scream. The footsteps of the men outside became the _snap_ of Thadeus Harlan’s crossbow as he fired the bolt through Garrett’s hand.

Garrett was jarred awake by the scrape of the door again as the stranger walked back through and bent down again and held out a small object, dwarfed by his hands. A cup of liquid. Garrett stared at it warily, and after several seconds of no response, the stranger set it down on the floor next to him, then climbed into the bunk above, settling into the sheets. Sighing. Garrett recognised the _riffle_ of paper (a book?) which then settled into occasional flicks as he turned the pages.

Great. He had come to poison him. He was going to sit in the bunk above, enjoy his book, wait for Garrett to poison himself, and then throw him overboard. Garrett wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He curled into himself tighter, and then suddenly the nausea won out.

The stranger got up and reached for something, a bucket, at the foot of the bunk, which he passed under the bed with haste into Garrett’s arms, and then sat with his legs planted on the floor, shrouded in a bathrobe, while Garrett finished being sick. The cup of water was jostled by Garrett’s sudden jerk, and tipped over, spilling across the floor, wetting his hip and his flanks. The stranger’s face appeared again, and he grimaced, reached for the bucket, saw the cup of water spilled on the floor. His face turned into one of surprise, he made a low “aha” noise, and left the room again. Garrett groaned in response, although his nausea had lifted somewhat, and tried to turn over, but succeeded only at flipping himself onto his back. Useless. He waited.

Drifted.

Once again the stranger returned, however long later, with a clean bucket and a small linen bag of something. He passed the bucket under the bed, which Garrett received and curled himself around tightly, and then held out his hand with the bag. Another few seconds passed, like when he had offered Garrett the cup of water, so eventually the man simply dropped it on the floor next to him, where it made a low crunching noise as if full of marbles or stones, and returned to bed. 

Several minutes passed. Garrett stared at the bag. A small pool of water was beginning to emerge around the bottom of it, so after even more time, he relented and investigated further. The contents of the bag slipped over each other beneath the pads of his fingers and soaked them, water dripped over his hands and he took a sniff at the bag before opening it. The light was too low to see, so he stuck one hand in and felt around. Ice.

Ice?

What was he supposed to do with ice?

His migraine had long since ebbed to a standstill by now, so holding it against his head did little to help his condition. He wasn’t injured anywhere else, so applying it to reduce swelling made no sense either; there was no swelling to bring down. So what…?

He reached into the bag and pulled out a chunk of ice. It was irregular, but rounded at the edges, glinted in the low, flickering fluorescent lights, and he turned it slowly between his fingers until the cold won out and he was forced to drop it back into the bag. When he felt able to, he pulled out another and looked at it. Remembered the cup of water.

He was dehydrated. He’d lost so much water over the past few days, and although he’d taken baby steps towards correcting it, none of it had been enough to return him to the general state of health he’d been enjoying previously. He still had headaches, separate to the migraines, which drove into his head like an ice pick. His mouth and eyes were constantly dry. He was tired and dizzy. If he didn’t get something to drink soon, he would decline, and he was utterly incapable of keeping down water with the seasickness, so in the mind of the stranger, it appeared, ice would be a good second best.

Garrett turned the ice between his fingers some more. Shuffled to the edge of the bed and held it up against the light, looking for needles and sharp objects and particulates. Sniffed it again, which yielded no untoward smells. Dared himself to lick it, through his thumping heartbeat, and found no sign or taste of poison. It was good; cool and wet and tasted sweet for water, so he slipped it into his mouth and sucked. Crunched.

On the bunk above him, he heard a quiet, amused chuckle, but he kept going, crunching his way through the rest of the bag of ice until the rest of it had dissolved into the linen bag held in his hands, and he sucked the rest of the moisture from his fingers. That was good. He had taken a chance and it had paid off, he was feeling better already: less nauseous, less dizzy and dry, had more energy (although it wasn’t nearly enough to start thinking about getting up and moving around yet, even if he wanted to). He wanted more of it, although he wasn’t about to present himself to the stranger up above, wasn’t going to ask for anything. That was a recipe for disaster. He slid the sodden bag out from underneath the bunk, clutched the bucket to his chest, _just in case_ , and then found himself slowly floating off to sleep. The first adequate rest he’d had in days.

The lights flickered off and he finally allowed himself to sleep properly. Between vivid dreams, he was awoken by several other men who filed in during the night, still chattering quietly, and got into bed themselves. Garrett’s anxiety heightened at the prospect of sleeping in a room with so many people, but he pushed it back down, tried to suppress it, unsure of what else he could do. Moving might disturb them and give his position away. He assumed, by the stranger’s reaction, that stowaways weren’t exactly uncommon on this ship, but Garrett didn’t want to risk it anyway. He’d come so far. It would be such a shame to throw it all away now.

The worst thing that could happen under these circumstances (considering the ice didn’t look like it had been poisoned and the stranger meant him no harm), he supposed, was the possibility of him suffering from a nightmare and screaming. He dithered. There wasn’t much else he could do about that other than hold off on sleep until the morning and sleep when everyone else had left the cabins. Maybe he could find a safer room to rest in? Somewhere a bit more quiet. A particularly large wave had his stomach fluttering unpleasantly again. He couldn’t vomit either. This was a problem.

The sounds of snores started emerging from other bunks in the cabin, one after the other. Garrett laid flat on his back and tried to imagine himself moving with the waves, attempting to re-orientate himself, imagining a horizon and focusing on it. It did little to help. His stomach still churned and bubbled, but he managed to keep a grip on it with deep breathing and staying very still.

The night passed slowly.

He’d had longer nights, of course. The night in the Queen of Beggar’s crypt had been much worse, but it still wasn’t pleasant. At least then, he’d been able to throw up as he needed, or cry, or make noise, or move. Here he had no chance. Nobody but the stranger lying in the bunk above him seemed to have any sort of clue that he was there, and while he appeared to be friendly, that didn’t guarantee the friendliness of the rest of the crew. He gripped the leg of the bunk. What had gone so wrong that he had allowed himself to end up in this position? It had just been mistake after mistake after mistake. He never used to be like this. Maybe the migraines _had_ been getting to him.

And Dunwall! They were sailing to Dunwall of all places! If he’d known then he would have had second thoughts about getting on this ship, maybe chanced waiting in the shadows of the docks for another. He wasn’t sure what he’d class that ‘event’ with Corvo Attano as, eight years ago, but the only word that had ever floated to his mind over it was ‘mistake’. It had been worse than a mistake. He had actively endangered himself by allowing him to get too close. He’d had worse mental injuries than that situation, but it hadn’t helped, but added to the mounds upon mounds of issues he’d be suffering. Still suffered from them, eight years later.

Garrett always felt that he should have known better than to open himself up like that, to trust a stranger, to let him into the very deepest folds of his personal life, his home, told him about what was going on in his thoughts and dreams, later to allow him access to his body, to play around with his mind, only for it all to have been a ruse. The evidence said that he’d been planning on murdering him when he’d let his guard down: Garrett had been effectively digging his own grave. But it hadn’t stopped him from mourning the loss of what seemed to be a close friend and ally all the same. Basso had never trusted him, and Garrett understood why. Doing his research, weeks later, he’d found much disturbing information about him, but it didn’t all add up.

Yet all the same, it still stung and burned and tortured him. His defences had been blown wide open and he’d been left licking his wounds. He never wanted to see the bastard again, not now, not ever. Not on a poster or a newspaper, and especially not in person. Going to Dunwall, Corvo’s home, was _not_ a step in the right direction. In addition, he thought, the same people who had brutally and mercilessly tortured him for no apparent reason had also originated from Dunwall. It was _not_ a place he wanted to be, yet here he was, sailing towards it. Without question, he was sure that the vast majority of people from Dunwall were perfectly pleasant (albeit not to him as a career criminal), but regardless, the idea was unpalatable.

To him, it depended on which would win out: his aversion to seasickness, or his aversion to Corvo.

Where would he even live once he got to Dunwall? He had no idea what state the city was in. He knew nothing about it, its geography, its politics, its culture or food. He supposed he could set himself up in an abandoned apartment but what if it got stormed? What if there was no other way out? Holing himself up in a home with only one entrance and exit had proved itself to be a poor idea at best, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. But there wasn’t much he could do about it here, laid shivering on the floor of the cabin, willing himself not to spew his guts all over the floor. It was something he could handle when he made it.

As the pale sun began to cross over the horizon and passed through the porthole in the side of the cabin in fits and starts as the room passed above and below the waterline, Garrett began to feel himself drifting off, found his grip on the edge of the bed loosening, his breathing becoming slower and more measured. The stranger, he suspected, had been asleep above him for several hours now, and it could hurt to try and get some rest until he was in a position to move.

Gradually he found himself bobbing with the ship, sailing from consciousness and into the weird dream world he’d been in earlier. Blackness and silence descended on him, and he was grateful for it.

Then.

Something stirred him.

There was shuffling. Whispers. Eyes. A snort. Might have been a laugh or scream. Wasn’t sure.

He stretched and shifted, feeling no less tired than he had done when he’d fallen asleep. What would it take to get some rest in this place? He took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the morning light, and then jumped violently. 

He hadn’t dreamt it. There really were eyes staring in at him. Several, although he couldn’t count how many, but the faces they were attached to generally seemed amused. Smiles. Glittery eyes. He huddled back into the corner again, shrouding himself in shadow, unsure of what to do, still inhibited by sleep. He knew better than to attempt to fight, but he had arrows. If any of them felt like grabbing him, they could experience the wrong end of a sawtooth. They didn’t really seem that way inclined, however.

They chattered among themselves for a moment in heavy Gristolian accents before the stranger who had been sleeping on the bunk above Garrett appeared out of nowhere with another small bag of linen - presumably ice - and pushed his friends out of the way, dropped it in front of Garrett, and then pulled them away. Garrett didn’t immediately reach out for the bag, parched as he was, but waited for them to withdraw. There were voices still. Laughing. When they had all taken a step away from the bunk, he reached out for the bag of ice, snatched it quickly and clasped it to his chest protectively, not willing to start on it until all the people were gone.

“Another stowaway?”

Another voice piped up, excited and animated, “Looks like it. Must have slipped on while we were held up in the City. Don’t tell Captain Renheart or there’ll be trouble, I’ll tell you that.”

Garrett was listening too closely to miss it. There was a moment of what could have been silence if not for the faint shifting and moving of fabric and flesh, and he allowed himself a moment to shift his head just enough to get a good look at what was happening in the cabin, and he caught a glimpse of the man who’d brought him ice signing to the others. Mute? Deaf? Couldn’t be deaf if he was interacting with the other members of the crew and responding to their questions. He was a lot bigger than Garrett had previously anticipated; well over six feet, and packed with muscle, scarred around the face and shoulders. Long eyelashes. He managed to get halfway through what he was signing, then his head snapped down to where Garrett was observing him, and he smiled wide.

“You’re a strange little thing, aren’t ya?” one of the other men said, crouching to his knees again to get a good look at Garrett, who rapidly returned to the shadows once again and trained his eyes on him carefully, one hand firm around a sawtooth. There was a moment of silence, as Garrett slowly withdrew the arrow. The man held up his hands in mock defeat, eyes wide, and shrugged, “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you be. Good thing you got Bruno of all people, he’ll look after you, no question about that.”

Bruno?

He watched the smaller man’s booted feet leave the room, and remained huddled up on himself, hugging his knees, bucket placed strategically in front of him so that anyone looking in would have a hard time seeing him, and clutched his bag bow and quiver to his chest. There was the sound of more movement above, presumably signing, and the shuffling of feet as the rest of the men left except one. That man sat down, cross-legged on the floor and peered under the bed again. Garrett stared at him apprehensively. The threat was significantly lower now it was just him and the stranger… Bruno… but still he felt compelled to hide.

Bruno pointed at the bag held by Garrett and made a sign with both hands, a sort of scraping motion backwards, and then paused. Repeated. Garrett waited for a few seconds, then slowly, slowly held the bag up so it was visible, and Bruno smiled wide, both thumbs up.

_Ice._

Garrett repeated the motion back to him, unsure of what he was doing, and Bruno nodded in return, seemingly pleased with himself, then made an eating motion with his hands and cocked his head, as if asking a question. Garrett shuffled back again, looked around, and then shook his head slowly, unsure of whether he had interpreted the question correctly. He couldn’t handle food right now. He still felt too nauseous, too seasick to be able to handle anything more than ice, so he shook his head and laid back down on the floor, huddling in on himself. He wished he could eat something, anything. It was too risky. His stomach was still painfully empty.

Bruno groaned to his feet again and left Garrett lying under the bed, where he laid for the rest of the day, drifting in and out of sleep, half dreaming, half thinking. The ice ran out after a couple of hours, leaving him parched again, and in the evening, Bruno returned to the bunk and passed him some more, along with a packet of dry crackers. Garrett, as he had done before, reached out and then dragged them in, clutching them to his chest, and Bruno went back to reading on the bunk above.

Several hours later, he got back out of bed again and sat opposite Garrett, whose muscles were in pain by now from laying in a cramped position under the bed, and tapped on the floor as if encouraging him to come out. It was tempting. This stranger hadn’t given any sort of indication that he’d hurt Garrett given any sort of chance, but he still didn’t feel comfortable with it, so he just stared at Bruno from under the bunk, and waited for him to go back to bed. He tried eating a couple of the crackers, and found that the overall effect was calming on his stomach so he paced himself, alternating between eating crackers and ice chips, and then waited for the night to fall.

It had only been two days.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but found himself dozing anyway, lulled into sleep by the rocking motion of the boat and the new found lack of nausea. At some point while he was out, the other crew members must have filtered in. He suddenly found himself back in the clocktower as it was burning and collapsing around him, back to feeling Thadeus Harlan’s throat give out beneath the claw, back to the dark dungeon in which he had been tortured.

He woke screaming.

There was stirring in the cabin. Voices. A light hummed softly, then flickered on. Garrett hid himself from the brightness, cowering away from the edge of the bunk, and a face appeared, looking in at him; small, narrowed, rattish.

“Are you going to come out of there or what?”

“Leave him be, Cooper,” another voice now, deeper and steadier, “He doesn’t need you telling him what to do.”

“He can’t stay under there forever,” Cooper said, his eyes darting around underneath the bunk as Garrett’s eyes adjusted to the light, “He’s got to come out one day.” There was a groan as he withdrew and got to his knees, sitting back on his heels, rubbing his hands along the front of his thighs. Garrett shut his eyes hard and hoped they’d get bored and leave, but it wasn’t forthcoming. “What about when we dock? Are we going to let him hide under Bruno’s bunk until our next voyage? Because that could be weeks, Cam. Months, even.”

Cam. The other man’s name was Cam. Cooper, Cam and Bruno.

“I’m sure he’ll come out when he’s ready.” Cam said. Garrett caught a glimpse of a hand as it was laid on Cooper’s shoulder and pulled him away from the bed, leaving him feeling less crowded and stressed. His heart still pounded in his throat, and his mouth was still dry, but he felt significantly more relaxed than he had when Cooper was poking around. Cam didn’t kneel down and crowd Garrett like Cooper had, but instead raised his voice slightly, directing it down towards him, “We have food, water and blankets when you do decide to come out. You’ll feel better for it, but we’re not going to force you to if you’re not ready.”

There was another voice. “Lad’s not going to do well under there much longer. Difficult to eat, difficult to sleep. Gonna do serious damage to his back.”

“Yes, I’m sure he’ll realise that in time. But don’t you think we have enough to worry about without pressuring him to do something he’s _very clearly_ not going to do? Or do you need more work adding to your pile?”

“Blow off. I’m just as busy as you, and you know it.”

The voices above appeared to dissolve into chaos, and a shadow fell across the floor of the bunk as Bruno appeared again and caught Garrett’s gaze. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion and smiled warmly, raised his eyebrows, looking hopeful, and offered one last, helpful hand to Garrett. He studied it carefully. The back pain had become almost unbearable and he was feeling severely unwell; weak and sick, so he relented and finally reached out, allowed Bruno to take his hand. Bruno sighed in relief and smiled again and helped Garrett out from underneath the bunk, then sat him down on the edge of the bed and wrapped him in a scratchy blanket. It was better than nothing.

The argument appeared to die down quickly as Garrett emerged from underneath the bed and suppressed a stretch as several pairs of eyes came to rest on him. The vertebrae clicked as they settled back into what was more of a normal posture, and he sighed in relief, sagged underneath the blanket. Bruno turned, picked up a cup of water, and pushed it into his hands as he swayed with the boat’s gentle rolling motion, and stared down into the cup.

“Skinny little choffer, aren’t you?” Cooper said again, and earnt himself a smack on the arm from Cam and a dirty look from Bruno, but it didn’t stop the words from tumbling from his mouth, “What’s that you’re wearing then? A corset?”

Garrett finally looked up, his eyes dark, and tipped his head to the side, bared the best frown that was possible under his current condition, and shook his head. _Corset._ He’d once assured Vittori that he was dressed in leather but would never pass as the cabaret act. Calling it a corset was one step further. He shuffled the cape around himself and scowled down into the cup. The water lapped at the edges in small ripples as he shook.

“Do you want some food? I don’t know what you’ve been eating down there but whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not enough,” Cam took a moment to study Garrett, and Garrett observed him carefully in return. He was older than the others: salt-and-pepper beard and light eyes ringed tightly with kindly wrinkles, “If you’re seasick, food will help.”

Garrett’s eyes flickered back down to Cam’s face and he shook his head. He didn’t want to eat - that was the very last thing on his mind and anything that would potentially leave him in a worse state was, in his mind, a poor idea. Bruno sat down next to him and rubbed his shoulder, but Garrett shuffled back away from him in a very clear indication of _’hands off’_. Bruno acquiesced, held his hands up, dipped his head, and looked back over towards Cam.

“This is Bruno, by the way,” Cam continued, gesturing towards Bruno who held up a hand and smiled yet again, “It’s not his ‘given’ name. We just call him Bruno because he’s a teddy bear… And he’ll knock your head off if you piss him off,” a short laugh, “But that’s pretty hard work, so we don’t bother. You’re in good hands with him, even as a stowaway. From the City?”

There was a pause as Garrett worked out whether to respond or not, and then submitted, wrung his fingers and nodded at Cam. He knew what was coming next - he had thought it through it a million times himself.

“You were lucky. We’ve been selling fish there for years but that didn’t stop them threatening to blow us to smithereens if we didn’t get out of port.”

“Bastards-” Cooper said, and then dipped out as Cam turned to him.

“Their loss, they’re missing out on good fish. Why are you here? We’re stopping off at Dunwall in about three days, so what then? Got somewhere to stay?”

Garrett finally found his voice, and when he spoke it was cracked and unsteady, the unmistakable result of dehydration and discomfort and lack of use, “If I had somewhere to stay then I wouldn’t be a stowaway.”

“He speaks!” Cooper said, raising his hands to the sky, “That’s reasonable. You keep quiet, and we won’t hand you to the Captain, alright? I’ve heard bad things about that city, and it’s perfectly fair for you to want to get out. Just keep quiet, do what we say, and you can get off the ship in Dunwall. Do you have a name?”

No answer. Garrett didn’t even nearly feel comfortable letting them in on something like that. He stared down at the floor and pretended the question hadn’t been asked. Came waited for a response, and sensing that one was not forthcoming, sighed and sat back.

“Fine. You don’t have to tell us. If you want us to refer to you as anything then it’ll be Squatty, same as all the other damned stowaways we’ve picked up. You can tell us your name when you’re ready.”

“Are there any ships going from Dunwall?” Garrett asked, ignoring the previous comment and trying to sound casual. The hurried question, however, didn’t escape the attention of the others, and Cooper looked up, suddenly very interested.

“Why? Where do you want to go?”

Garrett shrugged. It wasn’t exactly wise to start telling random fishermen that he was on poor terms with one of the highest-ranking people in the Isles, so he made do with a generalisation and some vague hand-waving, “Old enemies.”

Bruno threw back his head and laughed, clutching the edge of the bed next to Garrett, and then eventually collected himself to sign something to Cam, who also laughed and nodded in agreement, “We like people with enemies, it adds spice to life. What happened, _Squatty?”_

That wasn’t something that Garrett had been willing to think about himself, so he shook his head in plain refusal, wondering why Cam wouldn’t just drop the matter and _leave him alone,_ “It was a long time ago. I don’t like wasting time thinking about things I can’t change.”

“Very prudent,” Cooper said, “But if that’s the case, then why don’t you try sticking around in Dunwall for a few days? You don’t look like you do so well with boats. Give yourself a few days to recuperate.”

Garrett stared at the floor for some time. It did make sense that, unless he went looking for him, he was unlikely to just _bump into_ Corvo by accident, but the idea unnerved him all the same. Where would he live? What would he do with a city that was entirely new to him? He couldn’t go back to the Eternal City, but it was still so hard to move forwards. A new country with a new culture and way of life and currency and customs and laws was not his idea of a good time, but what other choice did he have? He was sure he’d be able to sneak his way into an abandoned apartment, but even then, it wouldn’t be comfortable. He still had to send Basso a message.

“Well… either way,” Cam continued, “We’ve got a spare cot bed you can use until we dock. Just make sure it goes away in the mornings so nobody spots it, aye? Bit comfier than lying underneath poor Bruno’s bunk.”

The concept of _just being given_ a bed by a cabin full of strangers, who promised to give him free passage on the down-low was not something that Garrett had ever expected - it hadn’t ever been afforded to him in the City, and nor was it something he had ever asked for, but here he was, surrounded by people who seemed to care about the fact that his spine felt like it had been splitting into pieces while curled up in the small, dark space under the bunk, and didn’t seem to want anything else. He watched Cam pull the collapsible cot bed out from underneath another person’s bunk, and reconstructed it at the other end of the cabin, underneath another porthole. Garrett observed it carefully, glanced over at Cam who patted the bed, and then, blanket still huddled around his shoulders, walked over towards it, and then sat down. Springs poked out from underneath the mattress, but it bothered him none. His own bed back in the clocktower hadn’t exactly been much better.

He waited for Cam and Cooper to return to bed before lying down. Bruno still appeared to be watching him from the other side of the room with some unreadable expression on his face, and Garrett wrapped the scratchy blanket around himself tightly, cocooning his whole body, and then laid down on his side, facing into the wall. Cam had been right. It was better. _Much_ better. He stretched out, appreciating the newfound space, and sighed quietly.

The lights flickered out before a shuffling indicated that Bruno had got back into bed, and Garrett already felt himself floating off with the slight movements of the ship in and amongst the low waves, clutched his hands tight to his chest, wrapping himself up for extra security. He tried to focus on the snoring of the other crew members, but found the noises slipping from within his grasp, and then he slept until once again, the morning light was filtering in through the windows, sometimes refracted by murky seawater, sometimes not so. 

It wasn’t quite enough, but it would do for now. 

He woke to Cam shaking him awake, insistent on taking the cot bed and folding it up, reassuring Garrett that he was entirely free to go back to sleep under one of the bunk beads, but it would be evening before he could get the bed back out. The rest of them went for breakfast, while Bruno stayed behind and sat opposite Garrett with a battered pad of paper and a pen. Garrett, unsure of how this was going to play out, sat opposite him anyway, interested.

The outermost piece of paper was quickly covered in the alphabet A to Z and Bruno held it out so Garrett could get a good look at it. Then, with a small smile, he pointed at the first letter, A, and pointed with his right index finger at his thumb, then again, and gestured to Garrett.

_A._

Garrett slowly repeated the gesture back to Bruno as he had done with the word _ice_ and Bruno smiled wide, thumbs up, and then moved onto B. He held both of his hands into circles, touching four fingers to thumb, and waited for Garrett, once again, to repeat the motion. They worked through the alphabet together slowly, taking occasional breaks for Garrett to repeat the earlier letters back to Bruno so as not to forget, until they had finished the twenty-six motions, and Bruno took the pad off Garrett again, flipped it over, and wrote _BRUNO_ on the back in large capitals. 

Once again, Garrett was handed the pad, and Bruno quickly repeated the signs for _BRUNO_ to Garrett, pointed to him, received the same motions in return, and smiled yet again.

Bruno, it turned out, was a very friendly, smiley person. When he did smile, the wrinkles around his eyes bunched up, as did the ones around his mouth, and Garrett felt compelled to smile back. The pad was taken off him one final time, and returned to him with a question.

_‘What is your name?’_

Garrett stared at the pad of paper for some time. He felt calm enough to trust Bruno with most things by now; he had risked so much for him, as a stranger, and they hadn’t even known each other for two days, but still the name felt far, far outside of his limits. Very few people knew - had known - his name in the City, and for good reason; it could be a death sentence if the information fell into the wrong hands, and although Garrett was fairly confident Bruno wasn’t any sort of threat, it still felt _wrong_ and _bad_ so eventually, he put the pad down on his lap and began to sign. He was much slower than Bruno, but still he watched Garrett with bright eyes, his head tilted to the right.

_BRUNO._

Bruno paused for a minute and then smacked his right hand on his knee and bent double howling. Garrett watched him as he heaved for breath between heaving laughs, feeling another smile work its way onto his face, despite his protestations. Bruno resurfaced what felt like minutes later, tears in his eyes, and pointed at himself, then at Garrett, nodding vigorously. Garrett found himself nodding in response, waiting for Bruno to wipe the tears from his eyes, then watched as Bruno signed _‘ice’_ at him and tilted his head.

If there was one thing to be sure of, Garrett thought, it was that there was a lot more to this signing language than simple words and alphabets. There would be syntax and grammar which Bruno was forgoing for Garrett’s own benefit, and he couldn’t help but feel touched. Either way, he was parched. He repeated the motion, at which Bruno gave him a thumbs-up, and left the cabin, leaving Garrett sat cross-legged on a bunk, waiting for him to return.

In the meantime, he retrieved the bag from underneath the bunk, double-checked the bow and the quiver for signs of damage, and then looked through what he had. He had completely forgotten about the food packages that Basso had sent him off with, so he studied them for a minute before rummaging around in the bottom of the bag, then pulled out the mechanical eye. The plans had become crumpled and damp from the journey so far, but remained largely intact, so he opted to leave them there and looked closer at the eye.

He had noticed, some time ago, that the eye was easily rotated along its horizontal axis, so he twisted it gently back and forth, feeling it click beneath his fingers, whiling away the next few minutes as he listened to crew members outside. Bruno returned with another bag of ice as he had done before after some time, and scribbled on the notepad again in chicken scratch capitals, held it out for Garrett to see. 

_We dock in 2 days. I have a spare room. Do you need a place to stay?_

That would be useful. The thought of spending any more time on a boat than was necessary was unbearable, but at the same time, _did he really trust Bruno?_ It was one thing to be staying on a boat with him lying on the bunk above; there were other people around so maybe that would go some way towards preventing him from murdering Garrett in front of them, but on his own, he simply couldn’t tell. People were unpredictable when on their own, uninhibited by the thoughts and opinions of others, and the risk to Garrett, in his mind, was too high for comfort. _But where else would he go?_

Instead of articulating this, Garrett simply nodded. There were still a couple more days to go, during which Bruno would hopefully prove himself trustworthy enough for Garrett to stay with, and if he failed to do that, then he could simply disappear when his back was turned. Simple. Easy. Clean. And entirely within his style.

Why would Bruno offer this? Garrett watched him as he grinned wide and then retreated back out the door to get to work, and then went back to rotating the mechanical eye between his fingers, thinking. They had only known each other for two days now. Not even nearly enough for Garrett to reliably get a read on him - he’d need several months, if not years, to feel completely comfortable with spending any time alone with him, let alone moving in.

He stopped the thoughts in their tracks. What he thought didn’t matter. It _didn’t_. He’d take it as it came, and if the worst came to the worst, he always had his bow. 

It was going to be a long day. He had nothing to do until the crew returned in the evening to sleep, so, stomach still queasy from seasickness, he returned to the space under Bruno’s bunk, bunched up his cloak, and laid his head down to rest on it, still fiddling with the eye distractedly.

The day passed in fits and starts. The sounds of men yelling from outside permeated the steel walls and the door and the porthole. Headache set in, yet still he thanked all the gods he could think of for the lack of migraine. Bruno came in to check on him after a few hours, and his feet pattered here and there confusedly until he found Garrett half-asleep under the bunk.

Someone brought him a plate of food too, while he was somewhere between dreaming and waking, but suspicious, Garrett set it aside in favour of one of the dried food packages Basso had sent him along with. It would have to do. When the night came, he returned to his cot bed, and Bruno ate the food Garrett had forgone.

Finding himself unable to sleep, still rocking to and fro in the darkness of the cabin, he got up as quietly as he could muster and then slipped out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He paused for a moment to ensure it closed with the smallest creak his could muster, and then set off on a brisk clip, unsure of where he was in the ship but determined to find his way onto the deck. He wound his way up one flight of stairs, passed several more rooms, none of which he cared about enough to investigate further, and then opened another door. A gust of cold wind and sea spray hit him, and he gasped at the sensation. Two days under a bunk _would_ do that.

He hoped vaguely that nobody else would be out and about on deck at this time. The moon indicated that it was roughly 2am, and the skies were clear, stars shining brightly down on him, illuminating the boat’s path. Dark steam belched from the engines in the very guts of the trawler and made the air thick. Did Bruno, Cooper and Cam work in these conditions? 

He wandered to the edge of the boat and looked out across the water, leaning heavily on the bars. Some captain or driver must be awake, as well as a stoker at least to be moving forwards. The cliffs of some unseen land passed them by, towering up into the air, and Garrett breathed deep. In and out. In and out. They couldn’t be far now; Bruno had told him two days, and that was very early that morning, and to be skirting land meant either that they’d entered an estuary or they were close enough to waste coal doing so.

He wished he was back at the clocktower. Wished he still had his home and his collections and Basso, as much as he was loathe to admit it to himself, but he forced his mind forwards, to the path ahead.

On his way back to the cabin, he double-checked that the driver of the boat was focused on his work, and then slipped in behind him, grabbed a golden compass off the table and a sextant, then backed out again. Feeling them heavy in his hands gave him _some_ sense of control at the very least. Nobody appeared to have woken when he returned to bed, so he stashed his prizes in his bag, and then slunk back into his bed.

By the time he awoke, Dunwall was on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> Sorry this is so late, I've been finishing up my last year of university, but I'm nearly done now so decided to start posting. Thank you for being so patient! I can't guarantee the same weekly updates that I gave before because the chapters for this are so long, but I'll try my best!
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think, and for updates on how the series is going and other Thief/Dishonored content, follow me on [Tumblr!](https://ledaeus.tumblr.com/)


	2. Next Closest Thing to Home

The rest of the day passed without event. Garrett spent most of it once again huddled up beneath Bruno’s bunk, hugging his knees, letting the nausea wash over him in waves, watching the light on the opposite wall oscillate slowly upwards and downwards, and allowing himself to drift in and out. Bruno brought him no ice this time, but when the light outside began to fade, voices began to rise outside, shouting back and forth, and the boat slowed, rocked with more intensity as it came to a halt and was pulled sideways, and then a _bump_ as it made contact with the dock.

Shadows passed the porthole shaped patch of light on the wall as men worked outside on the pier, throwing a rope to the men on board, who moored the boat, lashed it to a short bollard on the pier on both the fore and aft, and there it swayed for some time. Garrett dared not to emerge from under the bunk, but instead stayed there, listening to the noises, the footsteps on wood and grated metal, the seagulls screaming above, the smell of fish as it forced its way down his throat. The very best he could do right now was zone out for as long as he possibly could.

Eventually, long after the night had fallen and the moon was high in the sky, Garrett heard footsteps outside, rousing him from his trance. He suppressed the urge to shrink back into the shadows as two figures entered the room, and one - Bruno - dropped to his knees and held out a hand. Garrett, despite the discomfort he felt at being touched, grabbed his bag with one hand, took Bruno’s with the other, allowed Bruno to help him pull himself out from beneath the bunk, and helped support his weight when, once on his feet, his knees buckled from the cramped position he’d maintained under the bunk for the past ten hours.

Garrett allowed Bruno to steady him for a moment while Cam scraped open the door, looked up and down the corridor, and turned to Garrett, his voice low. “We’ve docked, as you’ve probably already figured. Most of the others are out now, probably at the pub or going home, so it should be safe for you. Were you planning on staying at Bruno’s?”

Bruno looked down at him with a quizzical expression. Now was the time that he’d have to make the decision. He’d been dreading it since it had first been put forward as an idea, and hadn’t thought on it enough to have decided whether to go with him or not. Cam looked at him expectantly for a minute while Garrett shifted his weight from foot to foot, and then capitulated.

He looked up at Bruno and nodded. Bruno nodded back and continued supporting him for a moment longer as Cam took one extra look down the halls of the deck, and then started moving. Satisfied that Garrett wasn’t simply about to keel over, Bruno let go of him, and they followed Cam down the corridor, up the same flight of stairs that Garrett had taken the previous night, and then back out onto the deck. Garrett swung the bag, the quiver, and the bow onto his back and followed Cam out into the open air.

He had never visited Dunwall before, but he wasn’t sure that _this_ was what he’d expected. He’d thought it wasn’t possible for the air to smell as bad as it had in the City, but he’d been wrong. The place _stank_ of fish and coal steam. Ships holding whales that were bigger than Garrett had ever thought were possible were also moored further down, some suspending their cargo high above the decks, still dripping with blood. When the breeze changed so Garrett was upwind of them, he’d catch the distinct smell of iron - blood - and force himself to turn his head in search of better air. Cam seemed to notice this, and laughed a rough, barking laugh.

“It doesn’t get much better, Squatty. It’ll be weeks before your brain learns to filter it out. Better just buckle down until then and hope for the best; I hope you don’t mind the smell of fish.”

Of course he minded, but what else was he going to do? He eyed up the other assorted boats bobbing at the dock, and found that the whole area was almost deserted. There surely wouldn’t be any movement until the morning, and that meant no outgoing vessels and _no way out of Dunwall._ He swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down. He really had no other choice. It was late, dark, cold, and he hadn’t eaten properly in days. He had no money; Gristolian currency was different to the City’s currency, even if he did have any, and he hadn’t managed to pick up anything of monetary value on his way out while the clocktower was burning. Unless he wanted to be sleeping in the streets, he’d have to go with Bruno.

He’d slept on the streets before anyway, when he was younger. It was cold and hungry and dangerous, being comparatively small and slender, and there was always someone bigger who was willing to go to extreme lengths to take what he had, regardless of whether it was food, blankets, the dry spot under a bridge, or even good contacts and alliances. Nothing was sacred. The thought of having to risk his neck again, all these years later, after all the progress he’d made, was sickening. The risk he was taking by staying with Bruno, even for one night, was far, _far_ lower than the risk of taking his chances out there in an unfamiliar city. One thing that he had noticed too, having spent only minutes on the docks of Dunwall, was how much taller everyone seemed to be. He had to crane his neck even to look at Cam, who was smaller than most of the other fishermen on the boat.

Of all the times, _now_ was when he needed allies more than ever. 

He followed Bruno and Cam as they wound their way through the streets of Dunwall, still heavily on his guard, and they signed to each other animatedly while Garrett trailed behind, sticking to the shadows. Every so often, Cam would turn around and ask Garrett if he was alright, to which Garrett usually nodded and hitched up his hood, avoiding eye contact, remaining silent. It was at least half an hour before they came to a sign on one of the nearby houses that proudly stated _Distillery District,_ and only then did Cam make a waving motion at Bruno, turn around to face Garrett, bid him farewell, and then disappeared off into the darkness, leaving them both alone.

Bruno looked over his shoulder at Garrett, jerked his head slightly in an indication of _hurry up_ and set off at a brisk clip with Garrett still trailing behind him. The streets were suddenly much quieter, save for the off splashing of Bruno’s shoes in the fetid puddles of rainwater that had collected in between the cobbles and Garrett’s hurried breathing. The seasickness still hadn’t enirely gone away, he was dismayed to see the telltale flashing spots of migraine in the corner of his vision, and he was starving hungry and parched at the same time, but at least here he ground stood still and he was able to stretch his back and work his muscles.

The lack of conversation, to Garrett, was a mercy.

He basked in the silence while they walked for several more minutes, and then came to an area where the houses suddenly became very much smaller than the ones back towards the docks, and the streets were full of muck, some buildings still abandoned. Garrett huddled his cloak around him much closer, trying to protect himself from the cold of the evening while they walked, and eventually Bruno slowed to a stop. Produced a key from his coat pocket.

Nothing surprised Garrett about Bruno’s home. It was small and drab and clean, tucked away in a rough-looking side street, but Bruno seemed to melt right into it as soon as he crossed the threshold and took off his hat and coat, depositing them on a coat stand to the right of the door as they entered. Garrett followed him sheepishly, double checking the street this way and that to ensure that nobody had seen him enter, and quickly shut the door behind him. He held his bag in one hand, the other still wrapped carefully around a sawtooth arrow, _just in case_ although at this point, he suspected, Bruno would probably have already killed him if he wanted to. Bruno, without a backwards glance, searched through a dresser, produced a match, struck it, and began to light the various oil lamps dotted at periodic intervals along the walls while Garrett stood awkwardly on the door mat.

Bruno finished lighting the lamps and then entered a room through a door on the left, allowing it to swing shut behind him. Unsure of what to do, Garrett continued to stand by himself until Bruno popped his head back out of the door a minute later and gestured for him to follow. Garrett did as he was told, and found that the room was warmer than the hallway, with a freshly-lit wood fire on the far side of the room. Bruno made an eating motion with his hands at Garrett, and then pointed at the floor, which Garrett interpreted as _stay here_ and then he disappeared out the door again, and soon the sound of a gas-burning stove and a knife on a wooden chopping board were distinct. 

There was another awkward minute while Garrett considered leaving, slipping out the window on the other side of the room, and then reminded himself of how much _deep shit_ he’d be in if he were left homeless, how quickly it could spiral out of his control, so he pushed down the anxiety that had been rising out of his throat, and went to pull the curtains closed. The fire was a much-needed comfort after the hellish past few days, so he found himself drawn closer and closer to it, until it was _just_ within arm’s reach, and he sat down, toasting first the left half of his body and turned to warm his right, all the while playing with the mechanical eye, twisting it this was and that.

It _was_ calming. It _worked_. The warmth combined with the flickering noise, the beginnings of an admittedly much milder migraine, and the exhaustion of his time on the boat led to the sagging of his body in his cross-legged position, to the point where he found himself falling asleep where he sat, so he got up and walked around, unwilling to expose himself to Bruno’s unknown nature (especially when he was in the kitchen with a knife), but the moment he sat down again, he felt himself drifting yet again. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, fighting against the pull of sleep, exhausting and annoying until Bruno popped his head through the door again, finding Garrett sat on the floor, and made another eating motion with his hands and a _come here_ gesture.

Garrett dutifully followed him into the kitchen, still lugging his bag. There was a low table with two empty bowls of set on top, complete with spoons and a hunk of bread, to which Bruno pointed again, so Garrett, still unsure, followed his direction and hopped up onto the chair. A steaming pot sat in the middle of the table, and Bruno stirred the contents once, and then ladled a generous portion into Garrett’s bowl, then his own.

At least it obviously wasn’t poisoned.

Garrett waited carefully for Bruno to pick up his own spoon and start eating before he did so himself, and even then, he stirred at the contents carefully with the spoon, inspected it carefully, and then tasted it. It was good. The flavour of broth and vegetables washed over him, familiar as he’d made his own variations when he’d been able to get his hands on ingredients in the past, and although this wasn’t perfect, it would do. A wave of hunger washed over him, and he found himself picking out the chunks of beef and vegetable, barely chewing on them, ignoring the bread by his side. Once or twice, he found his head bobbing and Bruno looking at him with a confused expression from across the table, even more so when he dropped his spoon into the bowl with a loud _clatter_ and jerked awake violently. 

Bruno, with eyebrows furrowed, pointed at Garrett, put his thumb up and circled it, then stopped himself mid-sentence and got up, walked to a drawer, and pulled out a notepad. The kitchen was cold despite the hobs that were still cooling and the steaming pot of stew, so Bruno flexed his fingers once, banishing the cold stiffness that had sweetled in his hands before writing on the notepad.

_Are you okay?_

Garrett took an extended look at the notepad then up at Bruno’s concerned eyes. He nodded once, then took the bowl in his hands and finished off the broth that had been accompanying the chunks of vegetables and meat, and looked around. The bread still lay on the table, untouched.

Bruno took the notepad back off him and returned to scribbling in spidery capitals, and returned it to Garrett again.

_Do you want to sleep in the attic or by the fire?_

By the fire would be nice and warm, and in addition, the room was near the front door, so he’d be able to escape quickly if he needed. He wasn’t sure what the attic was like, but it was likely to be cold and dusty, make him sneeze. He wondered if Bruno even had a bed up there. At least, in the front room, there would be a couch that he could sleep on, however threadbare.

He turned the notebook back towards Bruno, his eyelids still heavy, and pointed at the word ‘fire’. Bruno nodded once, smiled, and then got up, holding a hand out for the bag Garrett was still carrying dutifully, then withdrew it again when Garrett snatched it back, holding it close to his stomach protectively. Bruno was kind, of course, and it seemed doubtful that he wanted to hurt him, but Garrett wanted to keep it within sight anyway. Was there even anything left? He’d left his lockpicks in the clocktower when it had burned to the ground, and all he was left with were the clothes on his back, a couple of flash bombs, the mechanical eye and the plans. There was so much valuable stuff in there that had just _gone up in flames._ Rare Montonessi paintings and collectable jewellery and City plaques. He was sure he’d be able to find some more lockpicks one way or another, but _still._ It didn’t make it any easier.

There was still a package of food Basso had sent him off with. And the linen shorts and shirt he’d been sleeping in. And his weapons. Maybe it was more for the comfort of it than the safety. What use would a leather bag do him when faced up to a veritable giant of a man?

Maybe the bag was all he had left of his home.

Bruno stepped back, hands up in mock defeat, before leading Garrett back to back to the room he’d been in before, and brought him a fluffy grey blanket from a chest of drawers. He retreated to the fire and carefully stacked it with more wood, then looked over at Garrett, nodded, and left the room, leaving him in the dull light of the fire.

Considering he had literally been falling asleep over his bowl of stew, Garrett suddenly felt very much wide awake, alert, anxious. He retrieved the bow and quiver and held them in his arms, his hand wrapped, as always, around an arrow, then settled down with unease and stared into the fire. 

The migraine had been pulsing at the corners of his vision for some time now, although it had only just begun to kick in. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the ones he found himself experiencing in the City, but it was still an unpleasant, painful, sickening experience, so he huddled down, wrapped the blanket around himself, and hoped that, with a good night’s rest, it would go away. It was just a miracle that he’d managed to spend three, maybe four days on the boat without falling prey to one; he had been treating himself badly enough already.

The crackling of the fire lured him into an uneasy doze, from which he woke now and again to double-check the corners of the room from his spot on the couch. The fire died down slowly over the course of the night with each awakening, and only when it had been reduced to nothing but ashes and embers and the palest rays of dawn were seeping through the curtains did he finally, really fall asleep. And, mercifully, it was dreamless. 

It was midday when he woke up.

Bruno must have poked his head in at some point, because the door stood ajar. The migraine was gone. He found himself still clutching the bow, bag, and quiver as he had done when he’d fallen asleep, and peeling himself off them, he found reddened marks where they had dug into his skin. Although he was slightly disturbed at the prospect of Bruno opening a door without Garrett’s noticing it, he couldn’t help but breathe in relief - Bruno had well and truly had the opportunity to kill him multiple times over by now, but had opted not to. Garrett could assume he was something near safe now.

He stretched. Got up. Walked around the room once, and then peeked through the curtains. The street outside wasn’t particularly busy, but he opted to keep them closed anyhow. Moving through to the kitchen, he found that Bruno had left a note, saying he’d gone out for the day and that he’d be back later in the evening. It was a good sign, to Garrett, that Bruno trusted him enough to leave him alone in his house as well as sleep by his fire. 

Still, he needed a new place to live. As much as he appreciated Bruno’s kind gestures, he wasn’t comfortable here, couldn’t access food and water as he needed it, couldn’t safely store what remained of his gear. If Bruno _did_ decide to hand him over to whatever police force operated here, or Garrett happened to run into someone unsavoury, there would be no escape; it would be far too easy to find him. If he found an abandoned apartment somewhere within Dunwall, preferably somewhere low-key and hard to detect, he would feel a lot safer, and he’d be able to set it up exactly how he wanted.

He couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that he was also a burden on Bruno. He’d taken him in without notice, offered him food and a place to sleep, let him intrude on his home, risked everything by taking him in.

Before he could do anything, he’d need a set of lockpicks. Garrett was resourceful; he’d pretty much be able to make a halfway decent set using things commonly found in the average person’s house, but whether they’d hold up long-term was another question. The ones that he’d lost in the clocktower fire had been around for _years_ and he’d become heavily accustomed to their particular _feel_ between his fingers, but he’d made those himself using some real steel strips he’d stolen from a smithy, using his own workshop. It would be difficult to replicate here in Dunwall.

He pulled himself from his thoughts, and went to go check the attic out of curiosity. It was, as he’d expected, small and dusty, but there was a single bed covered in a grey blanket and a bedside table, as well as a chest of draws. The gabled roof hung low, even for him, and a small window sat on the wall just above the bed. Although it had a hole for a key it was unlocked, so Garrett opened it and peeked through, studying the alley and the wall opposite. It was secluded, and looking down, a small tin roof covered the door opening onto that side of the house. Perfect.

Turning back to the room, he studied the rest of the contents. A painting of a man hung next to the door on the far wall, and a sun-bleached rocking chair sat below it, next to a small and battered brown suitcase. It was locked, but the contents rattled when Garrett gave it a testing jiggle.

Going back downstairs, he investigated more of the house. There wasn’t much to it, aside from a smallish bathroom and another bedroom, which Garrett poked his head in. Must be Bruno’s. The double bed was neatly made up, and another wooden chair sat by the window, and a dresser lined the other wall next to a set of drawers. Garrett hadn’t heard much of the technology from the isles, but he _had_ heard of Kirin Jindosh and his groundbreaking inventions, which must have caught on massively within the last few years, because next to the bed was a framed silvergraph. Upon closer inspection, Garrett found Bruno smiling happily with his arm around another man’s shoulders, who _very nearly_ matched him in height and breadth.

Garrett picked up the silvergraph and studied it some more, then turned it over in his hands. Considering the technology was still so young, the silvergraph must have been expensive to have done. On the other side of the frame was a small lock of hair, twisted into a loop and attached carefully to the wooden back, covered in a layer of glass so that it wouldn’t be disturbed, as well as a yellowed piece of paper that was, by now, indecipherable. Turning the frame back over, Garrett found that the lock of hair was roughly the same tone as the dark hair of the man stood next to Bruno; it was hard to translate between the actual colour of the hair and the black-and-white of the silvergraph.

Feeling he was intruding, Garrett stood the frame back on the table, in exactly the same spot as it had been stood before, and left the room, leaving the door closed as it had been when he had entered, then moved to the bathroom. Considering it was still early afternoon, Garrett decided that it would probably be a while before Bruno got back from town, so he locked the door and wedged a chair beneath the handle, stripped, and took a shower after studying it for some time. Although it wasn’t something he’d used before, having only had access to cold baths previously, he worked out how it worked fairly quickly, and it was a blessed relief from all the previous days he had spent feeling _dirty_. He spent far longer than he would have usually sitting on the floor of the tub, letting the water wash over his hair and shoulders, and emerged maybe half an hour later feeling much better.

He re-dressed and double-checked he hadn’t left any mess, leaving the place in exactly the same condition he had found it, before returning downstairs, back to the front room which was still warm with the embers of the fire, and picked up one of the books sat on a bookshelf next to the mantle. It was so engrossing that, when Bruno returned later in the evening, the sky now darkening, he jumped violently and forcibly suppressed the urge to bolt.

They spent the night together in amicable silence. Bruno cooked again - chicken soup - and they ate together quietly, after which Bruno began to teach Garrett more sign language. Although the conversation was awkward and stunted, they practiced for several hours before Bruno got tired, bid Garrett farewell, and went upstairs, after telling him to sleep in the attic room this time. Garrett continued to sit in the kitchen for some time, alone, listening to Bruno pottering around upstairs before the house fell into silence. He hadn’t asked Bruno who the man in the silvergraph had been, but he suspected that it was probably a touchy subject, and certainly not one he should have known about, having been wandering around in his room, to which the door had been closed fast.

If there was any good time to try get his bearings in this city, it would be now.

Garrett collected his bow, bag, and quiver then went upstairs, turning the lights off in his wake, and stashed them underneath the bed in the attic. He spent some time pushing the bag to the very furthest reaches of the shadows, hoping that that would be enough to hide them from anyone who wasn’t looking specifically, then took stock of what he had left in his quiver. It wasn’t much: a few blunts and water arrows, three rope arrows, two blast arrows, a single choke and sawtooth, but it would do for now. The bow, upon extension, seemed to have survived the journey with a couple of minor scratches that wouldn’t adversely affect its performance at all. He tightened his harness and armour straps, noting he had to pull it slightly tighter than usual (thankfully, nowhere nearly as tight as he’d had to pull it in the past), pulled on his hood and cowl, took a moment to become re-acquainted with the places where they pulled taught, around his waist and at the back of his legs.

Cold air flooded in through the window when he opened it wide and leaned out, looking for a place to start off that wasn’t the street. Although he was sure that fashion was different here to how it had been in the City, there wasn’t a question of whether this would gain him funny looks and side-eyes and _attention_ here, which was a risk, so he hopped up onto the window sill and looked around. The roof was just about within reach, so he held onto it, tested his weight with care, and then hopped up, swung himself around onto it and scrabbled until he was laid flat on the sloping tiles.

It always took a little bit of getting used to, after he’d spent more than a day or two out of action. He climbed up to the top of the roof and perched himself there, observing the streets and the nearby houses. He would have to avoid the windows that were still light out of fear of repercussion.

Garrett grappled onto a nearby building and hauled himself up with a cat-like grace. The aches that had settled in his bones slowly vanished as he worked harder, jumping from balcony to roof to shed, testing the harness and later the bow, drawing it and holding it periodically just through desire to do so. His muscles itched for stimulation, and finally being able to satisfy the itch was beyond satisfying. He came upon a gravelly, flat roof and after verifying it wasn’t simply about to collapse as some roofs did, he rolled once - and then twice. Skidded to a stop. Dry-drew the bow, held it for three seconds, then slowly relaxed it. Headed to the edge of the roof and looked down and around, studying the streets below, breath cascading from his lungs and through his scarf in white puffs.

The place was, to his surprise, fairly lightly guarded, although the gates looked like they had been fitted with some kind of technology that Garrett was unfamiliar with, with fat cables leading to nearby metal casing. The primal eye indicated to him that this was a trap, similar to how it did when he came across a mechanical pressure plate or traps of a similar kind back in the Eternal City. He observed for some time more, and then, when he was sure the gate was unguarded, he worked his way down from the roof and hid behind a nearby pile of boxes. A snail, he found, was crawling up the wall just behind him, so he crept out, still obscured by the darkness, and _tossed_ it through the gate.

The sudden, sharp _zap_ and flash of light sent him flying off his feet, and the snail crumbled to ash in front of his eyes, carried away by the winter breeze. He fell over himself scrambling back to cover as the guard that had been guarding this particular gate came hurrying back at the faintest hint of noise. It was a good thing he’d not tried to walk straight through it.

The guard shifted from foot to foot for some time before turning his back, sitting down on a nearby tank that looked to be full of a blue, luminous, viscous substance, turned his back, and opened a book, engrossed. Garrett took the opportunity to turn tail, hopping up the boxes and onto the wall, running off into the shadows, double-checking he hadn’t been spotted. No alarm had gone up, so he guessed that he was probably safe.

Didn’t stop him checking the streets periodically as he worked his way around the sides of buildings via the pipes and balconies.

There were so many abandoned apartments here it was laughable. He’d have no problem finding a place to sleep - if anything, he had his pick. He wasn’t sure why so many homes would be abandoned, but they looked like they hadn’t been used in years. He entered one and looked around, studying the walls and the floors and the ceilings. They were dilapidated and run-down, but nothing was out of the ordinary. The air still smelled like fish (and somehow, sewage, but that might have been from the nearby waterfront).

There were books in the room, however. An old bed. A table that had collapsed in on itself. He worked his way out the front door, which was mercifully unlocked, and noted that the rest of the block also appeared to be silent, dusty, abandoned. A note nailed to the apartment door stood proudly, yellowed against the sun-bleached wallpaper, headed with a red half-filled cross, and Garrett picked it up and read it. 

_Notice of quarantine due to plague._

Garrett dropped the note without hesitation. These flats - or the occupants - had been infected with plague? How long ago? The gloom had been one thing, but he had no desire to live in housing that had been quarantined and then abandoned due to disease. He grimaced, then left the way he’d entered, unwilling to disturb the rest of the building. He hoped that the place wasn’t still infectious, and abandoned the idea of setting up a home in there; there would have to be another place in this awful city, and if not, then he could always leave and find refuge in another city or country, despite the seasickness.

He circled the streets for some more time, noting the position of the moon in the sky, indicating the time, and carefully watched the horizon for the earliest hints of dawn. Heading back towards the area of Dunwall that contained Bruno’s house and inspecting apartments for useful materials, he came across an occupied dwelling, and upon further investigation, came across a drawer full of metal hair pins. He investigated them momentarily and continued on his journey, only stopping to grab a couple of sweet things from a bakery that were just _begging to be taken_ , and returned to the house.

It seemed, mercifully, that Bruno hadn’t awoken, so Garrett tore off his cowl, cloak and mask, leaving them crumpled on the bed, and crept downstairs to find a pair of pliers. He searched through drawer after drawer, and in the dirtiest, dustiest part of the house, Garrett found a pair stashed at the back of the cupboard under the stairs. When he turned around, Bruno was already there, arms crossed. Garrett jumped and glared.

 _“What are you doing?”_ Bruno signed, then sighed and repeated the question slowly so Garrett would be able to pick up on the signs he’d missed, _“Why are you wearing that? Why are you looking around my house?”_

Garrett took a moment to process what Bruno had asked him, and signed back in the limited vocabulary he’d already picked up, _“Needed tools,”_ he held up the pliers, and then dug in the bag of loot he’d acquired, pulled out one of the cakes he’d stolen from the bakery and held it out, _“For you.”_

He could tell that Bruno was totally and utterly unconvinced by the gesture, and he stood there for a minute, shifting uncomfortably where he stood, before holding out a hand and allowing Garrett to drop the cake into his hand. He looked at it for another minute, before nodding at Garrett, signing _“Thank you,”_ and then placed it in one of the cupboards in his kitchen. Garrett took the opportunity to sneak back upstairs while Bruno’s back was turned.

He spent the rest of the night fashioning a rudimentary set of lockpicks from the hairpins he’d managed to steal from the house with the pliers. The task frustrated him greatly; it was so unnecessarily difficult when he’d been able to craft an actual, professional set back in his place with the tools at his workshop, and the outcome would be nowhere nearly as good. The likelihood of a failure or a breakage was unnecessarily high, but it was all he had, so he decided he’d make do until he could find another - plague free - place to live and set up a workshop.

Midday came. Bruno left the house again, due to return at night, like he had the day before. Probably working. Garrett gave up with the lockpicks many hours after he’d started, hoping that, once he’d had a decent night’s (or day’s) sleep, he’d be back on it, he’d be able to craft a better set, ones that might hold up better than the unfamiliar locks in this place, ones that might not break at the slightest provocation.

He slept as he’d showered; with the door locked, and a chair jammed beneath the handle.

* * *

The first time that Garrett heard any news on Corvo Attano was a week later, when he had depleted Bruno’s collection of books and had gone to raid a bookshop on the other side of the district for more. He hadn’t realised that one of the books he’d picked up contained a clipping, presumably used as a bookmark by the previous owner, until he’d crammed himself into a corner of the attic and opened it. It fell out into his lap, yellowed with age and flimsy, as if it would simply disintegrate in his hands. He picked it up with great care and began to read idly. No image accompanied the clipping, so Garrett was well into the second half of the article before the name itself was mentioned. He hadn’t recognised the name _Emily Kaldwin_ at all either, so it was a shock to hear that she was the daughter of Corvo, that she had been Empress for a brief while, and had been turned to stone in a magical coup. Studying the date, Garrett found that the events had happened roughly a year previously.

He also found out that Corvo was now the Emperor of the Isles. 

He dropped the newspaper clipping into his lap, set the book aside and curled in on himself, half-nauseated and half-intrigued by the discovery. Corvo, understandably considering the circumstances, hadn’t disclosed much information about himself to Garrett by choice, instead leaving him to discover the truth behind his past and his reasons for coming to the Eternal City, leaving it to Basso to warn Garrett of the danger he posed to him.

Garrett had never been quite the same since.

What Corvo did had left him feeling used and cheated and unsafe. He’d offered comfort and friendship and closeness, all of which had turned out to be a ruse, he’d betrayed his trust in a way that Garrett had never thought was possible. And to find out that now he was the Emperor of the Isles after being accused of murder, _twice?_ Garrett shuddered. It was one thing for the political elite to climb to the top as Felicity Bloumont had, through cheating lies and probable neutralisation of the opposition, but she hadn’t murdered her own kin. 

It was all up in the air, anyway. He had hoped never to have to hear the man’s name again, but it seemed that here, he’d be confronted with it until he left.

The book laid abandoned by his side as he rocked himself very slightly back and forth. It provided little comfort.

He heard Bruno walk in through the front door. Shoved the book under the bed after putting the clipping aside as he heard Bruno’s footsteps up the stairs, and stood up, brushing himself off awkwardly. Although they had been practicing sign language religiously every night, Garrett still found it difficult to communicate, to find the right words. He wanted to ask about Bruno but didn’t know how, and hoped that 

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and Garrett raised his voice, prompting Bruno to enter. He had to stoop to get through the door frame, his height only magnified by the low ceiling, and instinctively, Garrett backed up, looking for an exit out of sheer habit. Bruno looked concerned for a second, then gestured at Garrett, _“Your eyes are red.”_

Garrett hadn’t realised. It might have been the dust, or it might have been the revelation that the man who had threatened his life was now in charge of the Empire. He held up the clipping to Bruno, and failing to find the words, outright asked him. “Why is he in charge?”

Bruno took the clipping off him and studied it intently for a few minutes and asked while still looking at the paper _“You know him?”_ , before beckoning for Garrett to follow him downstairs and into the front room. The fire was lit with kindling, coaxed gently into something that warmed the room, then sat down and read the clipping some more. Garrett watched him carefully, leaning his elbows on his knees, and after some time, Bruno put the clipping on the side. Repeated his question: _“Do you know him?”_

Garrett lied. Whether the lie was convincing or not was another story entirely. “No, but I’ve heard of him. I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

He _had_ known that Corvo had a daughter; he’d told him all those years ago, but the lie by emission had left Garrett doubting everything he’d ever said. Bruno wrinkled his nose up, and Garrett could tell he was trying to formulate whatever he was going to tell Garrett carefully, resisting the urge to throw the clipping into the fire. Eventually, he leaned forwards and handed the clipping back to Garrett, sat back, and shuffled uncomfortably.

_“Monster.”_

Garrett repeated the sign back to him, double-checking that he had the meaning down right, before tilting his head to the side, asking him what he meant by that. In a way, he felt vindicated by Bruno’s opinion, and hoped he hadn’t picked up on that.

The expression on Bruno’s face was nothing short of disgust as he signed animatedly at Garrett. _“Killed his Empress and lover. Killed his daughter. Destroyed the Empire. Lost control of the city. Lost control of his High Overseer. There’s been nothing but trouble under his reign, he’s weak and violent.”_

Garrett didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he was entirely surprised by the opinion or not. Dunwall, when he had gone to wander around at night, had seemed relatively peaceful. There were no riots in the streets, no public executions, although that might have been a different story entirely during the day. He lacked the fundamental knowledge of Dunwall’s culture to be making snap judgements, to verify whether Bruno’s opinions were justified or not, but unease stirred deep in his gut. 

“I found an apartment that had been cleared due to plague.”

 _“Ah,”_ Bruno signed, recognition evident on his face, _“Rat plague. Happened sixteen years ago. Lots of people died, even more lost limbs and their families and their minds. That happened after the death of the Empress, and they say Corvo Attano murdered scores and scores of people, and the rats fed on the bodies until they became fat and began to breed. It was his fault. He made it worse. We would have been better off without.”_

That was worrying. Corvo had revealed to Garrett that he was a hired assassin, but Garrett had never imagined that his body count would be this high. Bruno looked at him with curiosity and continued.

_“You broke into a quarantined apartment?”_

Shit.

He hadn’t meant to reveal that detail. He should have been more careful. One of the reasons that he was so uncomfortable speaking to people was the connections they’d be able to make from the things he said, that they’d know things that he didn’t, which would one day lead to his demise, but he hadn’t expected to be caught out this quickly. He felt his cheeks flush prickly red and looked away. When he spoke, his tone was too defensive.

“I didn’t break into it. It was open.”

_“Rubbish. They’ve not been opened in years. How did you do that?”_

In stark refusal, Garrett shook his head and eyed the door, wondering if he should make a run for it. If Bruno was going to try to get information out of him regarding his less-than-legal activities, he could get it over his dead body. He’d run and fight for it, but what else did he have left?

Garrett sighed. Relented. There was no will to hold anything back left.

“I crawled in through a window. I wanted to find a new place.”

_“Why?”_

He withdrew, annoyed at the questions. He couldn’t just tell Bruno he made him feel uncomfortable, so he made do with “Because I don’t want to get in your way.”

Bruno looked at him and blinked once. Twice. His mouth turned into a frown, and his eyes became concerned. _“I enjoy your presence. It’s nice to have a friend – you’re not annoying me. I’d prefer it if you stayed.”_

It had not occurred to Garrett that Bruno might be lonely too, but upon careful thought, it did make sense. He lived alone. It seemed that, although he had friends on the fishing boat, voyages might only happen from time to time, especially if the political situation here was rough. Whoever the man in the silvergraph had been, he clearly wasn’t around anymore, and whether it was a friend or a brother or a lover was unknown to Garrett. The idea that Bruno might want him around perplexed him; he had become so accustomed to living by himself.

_“I found books under your bed. They’re not mine. Do you steal for a living?”_

Shit.

Garrett shuffled where he sat, uncomfortable in just about every sense of the word. Bruno had gone through his room and his belongings – if there was a sign that he needed to get out, then that was it, after Garrett had clearly been so protective about the bag Bruno had offered to carry. It might, he supposed, have been customary here to go through other people’s rooms but… Bruno had put him up. Not to mention that Garrett had done a bit of snooping himself, although he felt bad for it.

He remained silent, unsure of what to say, whether to deny it or challenge Bruno on the blatant invasion of privacy or just to give up and run. Bruno’s eyes darted around the room for a moment, then continued, _“I’d prefer that you didn’t bring the City Watch back to my house, though I do have an idea if you’re good at breaking into places.”_

 _This_ was interesting. Pushing aside the anxiety the previous comment had provoked, Garrett leaned forwards again, drew his legs back in underneath him and tilted his head. “What is it?”

Bruno looked uncomfortable, as if he should have never thought of the idea, then looked away, as if arguing with himself, debating whether he should say it or not. _“It’s too dangerous.”_

If Bruno said it was too dangerous, then it probably was too dangerous, but that didn’t make the prospect less interesting. He motioned, asking Bruno to carry on. There was another moment of _nothing_ as Bruno looked to be formulating his words, then sat un straight, looking Garrett dead in the eyes.

_“You could rob the palace and put that bastard Attano back in his place. Make a statement”_

Garrett looked at him blankly for several seconds, second-guessing whether he was being serious or joking. No hints or traces of a smile crossed Bruno’s face, there was no upward twitch of his lips, no wrinkled eyes, no laugh lines. He just stood there, face slack, staring at Garrett from across the table. There was no way he was being serious. No way.

There was a solid moment of silence, and then Bruno burst out laughing. _“I didn’t mean it,”_ he signed, _“I’d never tell you to do something like that. Your face was funny.”_

Garrett stared at him, dumbfounded. He had been so convinced for a moment, convinced that Bruno had _genuinely_ just told him to rob the palace of the Emperor, of a man that, he’d said himself, was aggressive and dangerous. It might just have been a silly thought that had turned into a joke, taking them both by surprise, but Garrett was perplexed nonetheless. “I… I’m glad you’re joking.”

Bruno reached over and ruffled his hair, much to Garrett’s dismay, and stood up. Turned towards him, still smiling, and signed at him. _“Promise me you’ll never go near that place. I don’t want you to end up dead.”_

Still unsure of what to say - or even to think - Garrett tripped over his own words in response, feeling flushed at having been taken in by the joke. “I promise I won’t.”

 _“Good,”_ Bruno signed, and walked through to the kitchen, leaving Garrett alone in the front room by the fire, but quickly poked his head back through the door, _“We’re off on another fishing voyage the day after next to supply Saggunto. I’ll get you a key so you can stay here for a bit longer. Stay safe.”_

Garrett stared into thin air for some time while Bruno was in the kitchen, then returned to the attic room, his brain reeling. He was sure that Bruno had meant that as an offhand joke, but the prospect made his head spin. Rob the palace of Corvo Attano, bloody Emperor and assassin. Take something that meant a lot to him, to hit him where it hurt. It would be so dangerous. He couldn’t justify it, however tempting the prospect was. Didn’t think he could justify it, anyway. A deep hatred burned up from his guts, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, with his head in his palms. 

The man had been out to _kill him._ He had wanted him _dead_ for reasons Garrett still didn’t quite understand. He had aggressively _manipulated him_ into trusting him, and had very nearly succeeded in taking his life. And then he’d left Garrett simultaneously rejecting close relationships while yearning for more. He’d cried over this man, for fuck’s sake.

But wouldn’t it feel _good_ to get _some_ revenge, no matter how small and petty?

Fuck it.

_He was the Master Thief._

_Nobody manipulated him and got away with it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sardine as always for beta-reading.
> 
> I wanted to change a couple of minor things about the chapter (yes, Garrett learns sign language very quickly whoops) but I figured you lovelies had gone long enough without an update. Hope you enjoyed :)


	3. The People that Rule Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that haven't read the oneshot [The Lone and Level Sands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887550) which explains what happens in Dunwall between the events of Dishonored 2 and the start of House of Pandora:
> 
>   * Jacques Boucher: The new Royal Spymaster
>   * Lucy Solares: The Protégée of Jacques Boucher, touted to be the next Spymaster
>   * Roman Zharkov: The High Overseer
>   * Theo Camberwell: The commander of the Dunwall Guard
>   * Suleiman: The academic Corvo has employed to work out how to save Emily
> 


Dunwall Tower, Bruno had told Garrett, was towards the east of the city, sat on the northern bank of the Wrenhaven, and notoriously closely guarded. The best way to access it was supposedly via boat, but being unfamiliar with the geography of the place, unaware of the little secret passageways and trapdoors and unguarded ways in and out, he was reluctant to take the risk. He was unwilling to pay a sailor or fisherman to take him, he was unwilling to risk his neck taking the ‘easier’ way in, and he was _especially_ unwilling to spend any more time on a _boat._ It had been two weeks now since he had spent all that time on the fishing trawler hiding and trying to get away from the City, and two weeks was _far too recent_ for his tastes. Never, in his opinion, would be too soon or him to spend any more time afloat in a flimsy wooden vessel, if he could possibly help it.

Instead, he planned his way around the outside. Pored over maps he had managed to get his hands on for days and days, marking them carefully in red ink and chicken scratch handwriting. Bruno repeatedly warned him against trying it, had gone as far as to express regret for ever planting the idea in his head, but Garrett was determined. This was his chance to spite Corvo, to prove his worth as a Master Thief, and to get his hands on a rare Gristolian artefact all in one go. Sure, he’d lost the City collection he’d spent years building up in the clocktower fire, but that didn’t prevent him from collecting one for Dunwall - if anything, it made him even more determined.

It became all he could think about. He planned his target carefully, collecting information on the things that were contained in the tower, what possessions an Emperor might hold dear. Corvo had seemed perturbed, all those years ago, when Garrett had taken his mask off him and refused to give it back, but it depended on whether Corvo was still in the assassination business. From what Bruno had told him, it was entirely possible, but Garrett was concerned it would give him away. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted Corvo to know that it was him who had stolen _whatever it was that he was going to steal,_ but in his mind it was probably a bad idea. Just the concept of having stolen something precious from right under Corvo’s nose was enough for Garrett, without then being hunted down for it. 

So what else could he steal? It had been so long that he’d forgotten bits and pieces, but he could take a wild guess. There were precious baubles and ornaments, sure, but what distinguished that from ornaments in the homes of anyone else in Dunwall (or the City, for that matter)? Momentarily, his heart leapt when he thought of Corvo’s crown - Emperors surely wore crowns, and what a kick in the teeth it would be for Corvo to have the crown stolen off his very head. 

But then a better idea struck him.

The sword.

Now he thought back on it more carefully, he remembered. Corvo had indeed had a sword, a very beautiful one that appeared to fold in half, one that was razor sharp and sang when it sailed through the air, dancing. Corvo had appeared to have a particular attachment to that sword, and in a way, Garrett couldn’t exactly blame him. If he owned a piece of gear so beautiful and unique, _he’d_ be very attached to it too. 

It was perfect. So perfect.

Thinking of making _anything else that Corvo could possibly own_ a target felt _wrong._ It felt like a blasphemy and a waste of a good opportunity. It felt like he’d be betraying his nature to be as _spiteful as was humanly possible_ and his position as the Master Thief. He laid in bed at night thinking of the sword, and when he woke up in the morning it would start again.

He didn’t even have to hold on to the thing if it was too dangerous to keep it in Bruno’s house. He could just drop it in a gutter somewhere and leave it. The effect on Corvo would be the same, and he’d still be able to tell himself that he’d _stolen the Emperor’s sword._

But planning. Planning had to be done before he could take any action beyond simply _fantasising_ about holding the damn thing in his own two hands. He had to plan his route and find out information on the routes of the guards and the traps and such that would undoubtedly litter the paths that thieves such as him usually trod. He had to learn more about Dunwall - the gates, which Bruno had told him were called _Walls of Light_ were supposedly powered by whale oil, which Garrett had _known about_ to some extent while still in the City, but had no practical experience with. Sources revealed to him that it was explosive but a strong source of power as long as the tanks remained undisturbed, but it wasn’t something he was about to take his chances with. Upon further investigation, he found the tanks and the traps they were associated with glowed a bright, dangerous red when he summoned guidance from the Primal Eye, which was useful; he could use that to his advantage in unfortunate situations.

The Dunwall roofs, he found, were pretty much the same all the way around the city: easy to traverse, reliably sturdy, and connected with furniture such as pipes and ledges and balconies. It wasn’t so hard to pick his way from the Distillery District all the way through the Old Waterfront and the Estate District, where he perched himself on top of a particularly large house and observed the Tower. With one side blocked off by the Wrenhaven, he’d have to find his way in some other way. Maybe from beneath. Maybe from behind.

It took him days further to obtain floor plans and information pertaining to guard patrols, but once he had those, he was set. He finished writing up his plans that evening while Bruno was sat downstairs reading, then held them up to the light. Not foolproof, but none of them ever were. This was the largest amount of work he’d ever put into a heist, and hopefully it would pay off.

Hopefully, in fact, he would be able to reliably stick to the plan, to make the best of it, but if not then it was no big worry. The prize, after all, was the sword and the sword alone.

The next evening he waited until the sun was beginning to set in the sky, then set off, climbed up through the bedroom window and onto the gabled roof, hopped onto the adjacent house, picking his way across the city like he had done so many times before. By the time he got to the Tower the light of the evening had dimmed significantly, leaving the place cold and dark with a biting wind. Spring was pushing at the boundaries of winter, but one final cold snap had arrived, making travel difficult and unpleasant.

He scaled the walls of the tower by the seawall where the number of guards were low and unlikely to spot him, and finding an opened window, he clambered through it, dropped to the floor, and surveyed his surroundings. As expected, he appeared to have dropped into some kind of dining room. He made a beeline for the great table that stood in the middle of the room, sat down, and consulted his plans, his map.

Upon further thought, there were many places an Emperor might keep his sword. It seemed like overkill to carry it around in day-to-day life, if he wasn’t expecting to meet any danger, or if he was planning on staying in the Tower. If Corvo was in bed at the moment, there was a possibility that it would be in the same room, or maybe in his office, perhaps stashed in a chest somewhere. Through all his desire to spite Corvo, it would be taking it a bit far, in his opinion, to creep into his quarters and steal it, if they were occupied at the time, anyway.

Corvo’s office, according to the map, was two floors up. Garrett rolled it up and stashed it into his belt, then peeked his head out from under the table, looked around the room for a way out without going through the door. A tall bookcase ran around the far wall of the room and led to a ventilation duct, so Garrett made his way over, hopped up, took a moment to regain his bearings, and then continued through it. The corridors, although very long, were also tall and contained what looked like water pipes running from room to room, so he felt empowered to move freely and quickly. As he was also above the lighting fixtures they used in the palace, it made sense that it would become very hard for anyone to detect him here as long as he didn’t do anything stupid.

The Tower itself wasn’t anything particularly special. It was well-maintained, yes, and heavily adorned in red and gold carpets, skirting and wooden panelling. The walls were covered in paintings and beautiful crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. It was warm and light, and guards masked in gold seemed to be stationed here and there, armed with swords and pistols. Pistols that, back in the City, the guards had not been fitted with, and a good thing too; they had been poorly trained with crossbows (if at all), how much worse would it be if they had access to gunpowder weapons?

He decided to stay away from these guards like he’d decided to stay away from whale oil traps. If they were anything like the guards back in the City, they wouldn’t notice him either.

The place seemed almost perfectly set up for hiding and sneaking, by design. These weren’t temporary measures - the pipes and the ledges and the bookcases - not the product of chaos and change, but they appeared to have been planned from the get-go, by whichever architect had designed this place. He saw it all the time in the City too. Like it was created to be easy to sneak around. He rounded a corner and found himself confronted with a staircase. 

Spoke too soon.

He had to climb that one without relying on pipes or obstacles, had to double-check every direction for guards, heard footsteps and then launched himself back down, hid behind a vase stand. He waited for the footsteps to disappear in the other direction, then tried again.

He was halfway along another long corridor, finding himself fairly lost now, when he heard shouting and screaming from the stairs some way back. Garrett froze where he stood, debating making a break for it, then thought better of it when a group of uniformed men materialised, clothed in dark blue, bearing the same gold masks that the guards downstairs wore. In the middle of the pack of guards was another, smaller man: slender, verging on gangly; curly, greying hair and a tweed jacket with patched elbows. The man, although struggling to break from the grip of the guards, clearly wasn’t strong enough to do so, and even though he was very obviously angry at being manhandled, he struggled to raise his voice. Instead, he pled with them, his voice quiet and frantic, promising that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the pleading did nothing to convince them to release him.

Curious, Garrett watched them quietly from his spot, perched on the pipes towards the ceiling. He didn’t want to deviate from the plan, but he felt compelled to at least see where they were going, whether they were taking him to prison or not. He wondered what this man had done. He followed them closely for some time, up another flight of stairs, carefully shrouding himself in shadow. There were several minutes as the man fought valiantly against their grip, but soon they were rounding a corner, into a room on the opposite side of the corridor to Garrett. There was another air duct leading into this new room. He took a few moments to work his way carefully across the sturdy-looking chandelier connecting the two sides, then crawled his way through the duct.

It was dusty. Didn’t look like it had been cleaned in some time, and a bit longer than he had imagined it to be, so he readjusted his scarf on his face, hoping it would provide some form of protection against the worst of it. There were voices on the other side. He hadn’t consulted his map in some time, so he wasn’t quite sure where he was within the tower, but he suspected he was on the floor he’d needed to be to get to the sword.

If he coughed now, it would be bad. Yet the dust was tickling against his throat.

He continued, working through the duct and found himself looking down over the guards who had dragged the gangly-looking man in. Something about the guards felt _off_ , like they weren’t the same as the guards he’d encountered back in the City; they almost seemed _military._ Uniforms like that weren’t the sort of ones he’d seen on normal guards.

Two new men stood towards the window in the room, one behind a desk, and one off to the side. The man off to the side was wearing a similar uniform to the guards, wearing the same kind of double-strapped belt, but the coat was red, and instead of the mask was a pale, angular face with cropped black hair. The other man was taller, older, dressed in a sleeveless blue waistcoat on top of a dark shirt. The hair was coming in silver, with carefully trimmed facial hair, and he seemed to exude an air of authority, but Garrett couldn’t help but notice in the way he stood that he was _tired._

Something about him struck Garrett as familiar, although he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It would be stupid to discount the idea that it _was_ , but he didn’t look the same as the person he suspected it was. His hair was too short, he was too built around the shoulders. He didn’t seem like the terrifying, confident assassin he’d encountered so many years ago, but he just seemed exhausted.

Maybe it was just denial.

It couldn’t be.

The idea made his stomach churn, so he pushed the thought back down, telling himself it was probably just some office worker. An administrator. Maybe an administrator of punishment. The gangly man was quivering on the floor, having been thrown there by the guards, hands up in fear, pleading for mercy.

The man with the beard appeared disgruntled by the scene, leaned on the table heavily with two hands and closed his eyes in annoyance when he spoke. 

“You’re interrupting my meeting because...?”

One of the guards stepped forward and prodded at the man with his baton. “We found this man in the Emily Kaldwin’s safe room practising magic of the Outsider, Sir. We have caught him in possession of bone charms and runes and thought you should know.”

Odd. Garrett had read about the old Empress in the clipping and how she’d been turned to stone. It wasn’t something he’d have expected to be brought up like this.

The bearded man folded his arms in annoyance while the man in the red coat to the side of him leaned back on one foot. “Who told you to enter that room? I specifically ordered everyone except appointed researchers to leave it alone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” the man in the red coat offered up, “Why would this Outsider worshipper be in this room in the first place?”

The man with the beard turned to him and tilted his head. “I asked why Overseer guards are entering rooms I’ve specifically asked them not to, Zharkov,” he turned to the Overseers and looked down at the man on the ground, “Spit it out.”

“Sir, we… we had reason to believe... Outsider worship is banned.”

A sigh. Garrett couldn’t help but notice the worried look that passed the man’s face, which quickly vanished as he rounded the table and gently helped the cowering man off the floor, onto his feet. “Fine. Take him to a cell. Ensure no harm comes to him and I’ll talk to him when I have a moment of time.”

“Of course, Emperor Attano.”

Shit.

His mouth went dry. He backed up further into the vent, not quite sure what to do, and balled his hands up. His heart pounded against his ribcage and the nauseous churning in his stomach returned in full force. He breathed hard through his nose, willing it to go away, telling himself that he _couldn’t afford to fuck up here_ and blocked out the voices from the room.

When he had been at Bruno’s, he had been so confident, so content with the idea of coolly taking the sword out from under Corvo’s nose, maybe even catching a glimpse of him if it went badly, but it hadn’t prepared him for the reality of it. The reality of being in the same room as the man who’d emotionally wounded him so badly, the reality of being within yards of a cold-hearted killer. The man he’d dreamt and thought of so many times before, when he’d been questioning his decision, when he’d been thinking over the event after the fact.

Breathe.

Somewhere his brain registered the movement of many men below, pleading, a door swinging open and then clicking shut again. More voices. Quieter. He forced himself to breathe slowly and as deeply as he found it possible and focused on his surroundings. How the dust glittered in the air. How he’d make his way out. Was it still possible?

More minutes passed. 

Garrett finally talked himself down and gathered himself, allowing a moment of _nothing_ so he could remain calm while deciding what to do next. What _could_ he do? Did he still care about getting the sword or was he now too drained to execute something like that? Had the shock of finally seeing Corvo in person after all these years just made him more determined to strike back? 

He didn’t even know how he felt. What had it all been for? He’d asked himself over and over whether he’d made the right decision in ejecting Corvo from his home way back then, but he’d looked so _hurt._ Maybe it was just easy for an assassin to play him like that, especially when he’d been so vulnerable. He worked himself up and then poked his head back up, enough for him to see through the duct and into the room. 

He found his eyes drawn to Corvo yet again. The man looked so different, much older and greyer, had more wrinkles, but he didn’t look _bad_. He’d aged relatively well and he still appeared powerful, he was deft in his movements despite the exhaustion that was exhibited in his gait. He was colder now though. Back in the days of the clocktower he’d seemed friendly and quiet to the point of shyness; now he was a ruthless politician, the soft, dark hair had been cut and with it, so had his warmth. Clipped. Completely different. Someone else.

He’d moved on.

And Garrett had not.

He wondered if Corvo would even recognise him if he saw him again.

It had been so long since he’d ducked back into the ventilation shaft that he’d lost all track of the conversation that had been happening in the room. The sword, he noticed, was attached to a belt at Corvo’s waist, so all plans of stealing that were off. Maybe he’d pick up something on the way out to make all this worthwhile, or maybe not, he hadn’t decided yet.

It wasn’t clear what they were talking about at first. Corvo was pacing around the room distractedly while the man in the red coat - Overseer Zharkov - watched him carefully, his arms folded across his chest.

Corvo eventually stopped pacing and returned to the chair behind the desk, where he sat and fiddled with a small box that was sat to his side, and then looked up at Zharkov. “About that man your men brought to me. Suleiman.”

Zharkov slowly wound his way to the desk, picked up a tumbler and a bottle, and poured the golden-brown contents into it, then leisurely made his way back to a plush armchair, sat himself down and crossed his legs, sipping. “What of him?”

“Delilah Copperspoon’s magic was of the Void, or I think so anyway. The man you brought in knew a great deal about it, so I employed him with the view that he would be the best man to decipher it. He’s an academic, a scholar, not a worshipper. Not a heathen.” Corvo’s voice was strained. Anxious. “You need to let him go, he might be our last chance.”

If this was true, then it would make sense. Overseer Zharkov seemed to be getting in-between Corvo and Emily’s return. Garrett noticed that what was going on here, in a private conversation, was directly at odds with what Bruno had told him: Emily Kaldwin perhaps wasn’t dead, simply petrified, and if it was all his doing, if it was a blind and misguided grab for power, why would he be organising people to get her back?

Could be that he’d realised the whole thing was a mistake and the Empire situation wasn’t something he could handle by himself.

Maybe things weren’t quite what they seemed. The thought piqued his interest and he continued to listen to the conversation, fascinated. Best not to trust too easily, he warned himself.

Zharkov chuckled and shook his head, “My men have already told us they found an Outsider shrine in his home. If we let him go then we set a precedent to start allowing all Outsider worshippers to go unpunished.”

“We don’t have to let anyone know. _Nobody_ needs to know. If they had never intruded on Emily’s private room then we wouldn’t be in this position. It’s almost like you don’t want to help me get her back, Roman.”

Roman breathed in through his nose, watching the contents of the glass as he swirled it and then downed the lot. “The Abbey of the Everyman is a central element of this government. I’ve already told you we have to work in unison or we’ll lose control again.” He held up a finger as Corvo began to splutter out a protest and then continued, “I can help you find a better set of researchers to bring her back. Find a method that doesn’t involve blasphemous practices. How does that sound?”

“Shit,” Corvo shot back without missing a beat, “Honestly, it sounds like a shit idea. You give me Suleiman back or I’m going to release you from your post and find a new High Overseer.”

“You’re not seriously telling me you support this practice?”

Corvo shuffled uncomfortably where he stood, and Garrett ducked back into the vent as he looked up suddenly, hiding from his view, the anxiety still bubbling sickening in his guts. “I’m saying I’ll support whatever he says it takes.”

“Right…” Roman said, trailing off, looking Corvo up and down with narrowed eyes, “We can talk about it later, with him. I have a question.”

A hum, an indication to _go on_.

And about that funding you promised us for Abbey activities in our meeting two weeks ago?”

Corvo turned around to face Roman and snapped, “I already told you I can’t be funding or endorsing Abbey activities. You can find it elsewhere.”

“You keep saying that you can’t help us, but you can’t even control Dunwall,” Roman said, his voice slightly raised, “You broke your promise to give us new barracks and equipment, you won’t give us the same privileges as the Guard, you won’t recognise our rejection of Outsider worship publically…” Garrett watched Roman carefully as he counted off on his fingers, “People are still starving and dying of disease and it’s been _a year. A year._ I am begging you Corvo to let me help you sort this mess out, for the good of the people. Get Jacques and Theo and Sokolov on my side, help them see the benefits this could bring us. Sign us over that funding and we can make it _better.”_

“It doesn’t matter how much you beg me, High Overseer Zharkov, I can’t and I won’t sign it over. You’re free to ask your Karnaca division for help, but I can’t afford to be seen giving you preferential treatment over the Guard.”

Roman pursed his lips. Crossed his arms. “You always seem to worry so much over being _fair_ rather than being practical. The Guard haven’t done shit. My own men are still using outdated weaponry. We’re doing so much for the community here in Dunwall and you’re not helping us at all.”

“It’s not my duty to _help you._ It’s my duty to try and pull this city out of the dump, and having Overseers stationed on every corner isn’t going to help.”

Roman sighed. “I see you’re not going to change your mind. If there’s anything I can do to help you, then please let me know.” He paused, waited for a response from Corvo that didn’t appear, and then changed the subject in search of more pleasant conversation, “Are you still coming to our party tomorrow?”

Corvo dipped his head, and responded noncommittally, his voice terse. “Yes. I will. Masked ball, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“At the Hallewell Manor? In the Estate District?”

“Yes,” Roman said, smiling, clearly trying to disperse the tension, “It’ll be _fun._ It’s a good way for all the important people in the city to get to know each other, and the Abbey. It’ll be a good networking event, if nothing else. I’ve ordered plenty of peach soda!”

Corvo snorted, amused at Roman’s enthusiasm. “Well, if anything, maybe it’ll help release some of the tension between you, Theo and Jacques.”

“Right,” Roman said, “A more relaxed setting. A nice dinner. Some music. Can’t hurt, right?”

The idea of a ball was _very interesting_ to Garrett. He had, over the past few minutes, been becoming accustomed to observing Corvo from a distance, so although he was still apprehensive, the idea intrigued him. _All the important people in the city…_ sounded like a good opportunity to do some thieving to him. All the rich people with all their fancy, expensive belongings: jewellery, money, watches, the whole shebang. 

It would be difficult to pass up this opportunity.

Maybe he’d even be able to build himself up to stealing the sword. All the shock of seeing Corvo after all these years had worn off, so hopefully it would be easier to execute the task at a later date; after all, he couldn’t spend his life cowering away in fear of spotting the Emperor. Especially not when there were shinies involved.

Some part of him, deep down, wondered if he actually wanted to see him again, to observe him from a distance for a little bit longer, just out of curiosity. He’d done stupid things before - he’d walked into the obvious Great Safe trap and he’d still come out alive, and if he played his cards right, he’d profit massively off the Sword Heist, catapulting his reputation to the levels that it had been back in the City. 

It was a good thing that Basso didn’t know what Garrett was planning, because if he did, he knew he’d be getting an earful.

He waved the thought off. Steeled himself. Waited.

“I have some work to do,” Overseer Zharkov said, standing up and placing the glass on Corvo’s desk, “If you want, we can meet in two hours to discuss Suleiman’s fate. You can talk to him if you wish, he should be down in a temporary cell in Coldridge. The guards will direct you. How does that sound?”

“Fine.” Corvo said, then picked up a sheet of paper and studied it very carefully, “We’ll do that then. I’ll be in my office. Working. As always.”

“Very good, Your Highness.”

Roman bowed deeply and took off briskly in the other direction. Garrett heard the door swing open and click shut as it had done before, and then took a moment to simply watch Corvo in silence. To observe him as he slowly put the paper down and stared at the hands that were balled into fists in his lap, then sighed, rested his head in his hands, and screwed his eyes tight shut.

A smudge of sympathy pulled at Garrett’s guts, and then he banished them quickly. Why should _he_ feel bad for a seasoned assassin who’d taken a contract on him? Corvo’s troubles were not Garrett’s own, and it was no business of his to allow them to take up space in his mind.

He watched Corvo for one moment longer, then backed out of the ventilation duct and made for the exit.

His mind was still racing, still combing through mounds upon mounds of details that he’d already analysed in great detail. _Had_ he made the right choice? Should he have left the second he found Corvo in that room? Had all this been a mistake? He was tired - exhausted, emotionally and physically, needed to rest of he’d start making mistakes.

It didn’t take him long.

He forgot to pull his mask back up on the way out.

* * *

Garrett had picked up a lapel pin with the Royal Crest on the way out, and when he presented Bruno with it, he got roughly the reaction he’d expected. Bruno took the pin off him with a glint in his eye, turned it over in his fingers once, and then twice, and then threw his head back and laughed. He ruffled Garrett’s hair, much to his displeasure, and then turned. Made his way to the sitting room and placed it on the mantle above the fire.

He stepped back, his hand stroking his beard absentmindedly, watching the pin as it glittered in the warm light of the hearth. Garrett knew Bruno would have no business or use for the thing, and just wanted to revel in the fact that Garrett had stolen something so valuable from right under Corvo’s nose, yet Corvo’s earlier interaction with Roman, the Overseer, weighed heavily on his mind. 

Theoretically, he _could_ have gotten away with stealing the sword if he’d hung around in the Tower for a bit longer, tracked Corvo and snatched it when he wasn’t looking - Garrett _was_ the Master Thief after all - but something about seeing him after all these years was slightly unnerving, off putting, yet exhilarating.

He wanted more.

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go undetected. It would be easy enough, surely, to play mind games, to give Corvo a glimpse of black cloak, of blackjack, to let him know that he was around and still going strong. Maybe make him afraid. It was spiteful and petty, Garrett knew, but he didn’t care.

The look on Bruno’s face brought Garrett joy, yet he felt none of what Bruno felt. He wanted _more_ but he knew the only way to get it would be to spend more time in Corvo’s presence. To steal more valuable items. To play this weird cat-and-mouse game that was going around and around in his head.

Bruno turned to him with a smile. Gave him a thumbs-up, then gestured at him to wait where he was standing. Garrett did as he was told, standing in front of the hearth for a moment as Bruno left the room and there was a clattering noise as he searched through a set of drawers or something of the like, and then returned. He dropped a key into Garrett’s hands along with a note, and waited for Garrett to read it.

_House keys for when I’m away at sea._

Garrett studied the key up close for a minute and then looked back up at Bruno. Of course he was going to be away. Garrett would have been able to pick the lock easily enough, but Bruno didn’t know that, or at least hadn’t put two and two together yet. Maybe it was just an expression of admittance, to show that he was welcome in his home.

Maybe it was that Bruno trusted him.

The gesture touched Garrett, despite the obviously innocent intentions. He gave Bruno a small, weak smile and a nod, waited for a moment while Bruno smiled back at him, and then watched him as he turned his back and retreated down the corridor, double-checked that the door was locked, and then made his way upstairs to go to bed. A backpack sat on the floor by the door, along with Bruno’s coat and hat and Garrett looked at them for a moment, thinking.

It had taken Bruno only a couple of weeks to trust him with a key to his house. Garrett still didn’t completely trust Bruno. He still propped a chair up underneath the handle of the bedroom door while he slept.

Maybe Dunwall wasn’t so unfriendly after all.

When he finally made his way upstairs to the bed, he eyed the suitcase in the corner of the room closely, thinking. Although he wanted to know what was inside it, wanted to know what secrets it held and find out why it had been stashed up here and allowed to gather dust, the thought of Bruno’s display of trust kept circling his mind, kept picking at his subconscious.

If the suitcase was locked, the contents were private. An alien concept for the Master Thief, but a concept nonetheless, and it would be unwise at best to piss off his only friend in this city. He would be able to pick it if he wanted, but he didn’t.

Instead, he turned onto his back and watched the shadows chase each other across the ceiling, and thought instead about the ball Corvo had been discussing with his advisor earlier. He couldn’t pass this up. It was an opportunity to go out and finish what he had started, the seed of the idea finally having been planted in his head. Excitement pinched at his insides as he thought about it. A challenge was what he needed, his opportunity to regain his footing.

He would have to be up early to plan the heist. It would be a lot of work, but he would do it nevertheless, and then he would show them.

He would show them all.

* * *

Corvo was up late. Working. Again.

The clock had long since chimed the tenth hour and his eyes burned with exhaustion but he knew that if he tried to go to sleep, it wouldn’t happen and all he’d succeed in doing would be making himself stressed over the prospect of another night with no rest.

Besides, he had agreed to meet with Roman and maybe Suleiman. He had to get him out of jail before something bad happened and the already-slim chances of getting Emily back were completely obliterated. He tried to concentrate on the paper that he was supposed to be working his way through, but found himself constantly distracted, and glanced up at the clock periodically, watching the minute hand slowly move clockwise. Roman was late. 

He didn’t like being kept waiting.

Maybe something had cropped up. Maybe one of his damned lackeys had found some peasant with a bone charm or something equally inconsequential. Maybe Corvo didn’t care what had happened, and thought that Roman should keep appointments better.

Communications between Jacques, Theo and Roman appeared to have irreparably broken down. Jacques had been busy recently trying to install safeguards and weed out what remained of Delilah’s followers in Dunwall so he hadn’t had the chance to retire yet as he’d wanted to. Theo was still commanding the city guard. They had more important things to think about than Roman’s constant persuasion.

Several more minutes passed before Corvo started pacing, and even more before he went to pour himself a drink. Then another. And another. He paced back and forth in front of the dimming fire for some time, knocking the whiskey back, his mind racing, speculating on what was going to happen with Suleiman, with Emily, with the Council. What had gone so wrong?

His vision was just beginning to slip and tilt when there was a knock on the office door. Corvo downed what was left in the glass and then walked to the door, unlocked and then opened it, finding Roman stood in front of him, still immaculately kept, unruffled. He nodded at Corvo, who scowled back at him.

“What kept you?”

“Apologies,” Roman said, “One of my men informed me that they had spotted an intruder, but didn’t manage to apprehend him. It might be wise to tighten up security, if possible.”

Corvo hadn’t expected that. Security _had_ been very tight recently, as tight as he could possibly make it. Theo only had so many men with which to operate the Guard, and it would be difficult to bring more in without compromising security in other areas of the city - or running the Empire’s coffers dry. Money was short as it was, there wasn’t spare to be going around, and the other isles - Morley, Serkonos and Tyvia - had been flagging on exports and imports.

Corvo pressed him. “Did the guard manage to get a good look at him?”

“His face was uncovered, so yes, reasonably good,” Roman said, “Said he was all covered in black, black hair, slim face and extensive scarring down one side of his face. Apparently one of his eyes was glowing blue, although that might have been a trick of the light,” a pause as Roman thought for a moment and then continued, “I hope so anyway. I hope it isn’t another incarnation of the Outsider’s forces.”

“I’m sure it’s not.” Corvo said absentmindedly, once again stashing his wrapped hand in his pocket. He hoped it wasn’t, anyway. The description stirred a memory, somewhere in the back of his brain, but he tried to forget it, to focus on the task at hand, to work on getting Suleiman back and sorting this whole mess out. “I’ll ask Theo if he can spare any more guards.”

“Very good,” Roman said, nodding again as Corvo turned, extinguished the fire in his office, then turned out the lights as he left, then locked the door, “Now, about the man we brought in earlier - the one we caught with the Shrine in his house…?”

“Suleiman,” Corvo reminded him, walking alongside Roman, playing with the key in his pocket, “Yes, I remember him.”

“You said you were working with him?”

“I employed him, yes,” Corvo said, “He may be our best chance at getting Emily back.”

“But surely you must have known he engaged in this… worship?”

Corvo said nothing for a few seconds as they continued down the hallway, nodding to a guard who stood stationed by one of the windows. Suleiman, Corvo was sure, _did_ worship the Outsider, or had done when he’d first met him. The presence of the Shrine all but gave it away, but Corvo had not wanted to quiz him on it. Maybe it was to keep Suleiman feeling comfortable and secure in order to produce his best work, but Corvo knew the real reason was more selfish than that. He didn’t want to speak to the Outsider. Didn’t want to risk it.

When he spoke, his voice was heavily strained. “Whatever _worship_ he’s been performing - if any - is primarily for research purposes. I can guarantee you he’s not the heretic you think he is. Secondly, he is under my protection; what he needs to do to get the Empress back, he will do, and your views on this type of magic are none of my concern in this instance.”

He could practically _feel_ Roman raise his eyebrows beside him. There was a sigh. Another pause. They descended down a flight of staircases and the air steadily grew heavy and cold and damp. “It’s not a good look to have the Emperor himself condoning Outsider worship. What happens if word gets out?”

“It wouldn’t have gotten out if your men hadn’t been sticking their noses where they didn’t belong,” Corvo said, “I don’t care what people think, what I care about is getting Emily back.”

They lapsed into further silence as they descended further and the natural white light and tasteful decor of the upper levels of the tower turned to grey stonework, moss, flickering torchlight and the occasional echoes of steps from guards, or shouts of people in the cells. 

The jail was on the very lowest floor of the castle. It was a deeply unpleasant place to be, but at this point, Corvo was willing to do anything to protect himself and his daughter, including imprisoning people he considered a threat, for extended periods if he had to. It was nothing compared to what he’d done in the past. How many had he killed in her name? It didn’t matter, he didn’t regret it at all.

What he did regret was allowing Suleiman to come to be in this place.

He was still relatively well put-together when Roman and Corvo arrived at the cell. He was sat at the far end, away from the bars separating him from the corridor which linked the rest of the cells together. His frizzy black hair looked somehow more dishevelled than it usually did, and he looked pale and gaunt in the flickering of the torch carried by Roman, but if anything, it was probably the fear of being put in jail rather than mistreatment. His ankles, however, looked like they were rubbing raw underneath the shackles.

It took a moment for his eyes to flicker up to Corvo and Roman from the broken flagstone he had been staring at, his face expressionless. He said nothing.

“Emperor Attano wanted to talk to you,” Roman said, his voice firm and authoritative, “Please say what you have to say.”

An awkward silence descended on the three as Suleiman looked around, fidgeting, and Corvo gripped the bars of the cell. He turned towards Roman, and gave him a look, asking him to give them some privacy, but Roman ignored it. He supposed it would be asking too much for a private conversation.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Corvo said, “I’m going to get them to release you as soon as I can. This should never have happened and I’m going to make it right. Give me some time and you can return to your work on Emily.”

Suleiman nodded slowly, his eyes still fixated on Roman, who was standing behind Corvo. “It would be wise. I am on the verge of a turning point. Suleiman appreciates your concern.” He stopped for a moment, and then moved slowly, placed his hands on the floor, wincing at the shackled as they rubbed at his ankles further, and proceeded towards Corvo. 

He leaned in to Corvo’s ear as if to say something that he hoped wouldn’t be picked up on my Roman. Predictably, there was a shout from behind Corvo, and at the last second, Suleiman quickly reached for and then grabbed his hand, well out of Roman’s sight in his anger, and stuffed a small piece of paper into it.

He stumbled back at Roman’s shout and sudden advance, falling backwards and landing on the stone floor again, cowering. Shadows danced here and there as the torch flickered, Roman continued to focus on Suleiman, who was apologising profusely, and Corvo took the second of distraction to tuck the paper that Suleiman had handed him underneath the wrap on his hand.

“We will be leaving now,” Roman said firmly, turning and walking off down the corridor, “You will come with me or I will call the guards and have you arrested as well.”

Corvo nodded to Suleiman in thanks as Roman’s back was turned and then followed him, before he fully processed what the warning meant to him. The High Overseer arresting the Emperor? That was a brave move.

“How dare you?” Corvo asked, his voice strained and dark, “I should have you removed from your post. I am your _Emperor.”_

Roman didn’t respond, continued up the stairs at a brisk clip, took the Overseer Guard at the top of the stairs aside and hurriedly issued him some instructions. The Overseer nodded back at him, glared at Corvo, and then returned to his post as the other two walked off down the hallway, Roman in the lead.

“You will release him now, or you will be removed from your post and arrested.”

“You will do no such fucking thing,” Roman shot back and turned to him. His eyes were dark, his posture was stiff, and he was breathing heavily in fury. “I will do what I need to for this godforsaken city, and that includes maintaining order. It includes locking up and dealing with those who are a blatant threat to the Abbey, and if that person so happens to be employed by the Emperor, then we will do exactly that.” He turned and handed his torch to a guard who was stood by one of the windows, “Goodnight, Corvo. I will see you tomorrow at Hallewell Manor. I hope a good night’s rest will be sufficient to clear both of our heads.”

Corvo just stared at him, fuming, as he walked off down the corridor towards his quarters - then turned with sudden and extreme exhaustion, and returned to his office.

He would be so lucky to get a full night’s rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Sardine for beta-ing. Please let me know what you think :)


	4. Teeth of the Chicken

Corvo had been pacing for nearly an hour in his office, back and forth in front of the dying embers of the fire before he remembered the note that Suleiman had slipped him down in the tower prison earlier that evening. He toyed with the edge of the wrap on his hand, running the tips of his fingers over the gold embroidered edge before moving to check the corridor and lock his office doors, on the off-chance that anyone would spot him. Poking his head through the door, he found two Overseer officers stationed several feet away on either side of his door. They glared at him - at least, that was what it looked like - before he shot them both a scowl and slammed the doors shut, locking it and then jamming a chair beneath the handles.

He was being watched.

He headed back to the fire and pulled a plush armchair in front of it, slid his index finger beneath the wrap on his left hand until it met the crumpled edge of the note, then carefully pulled it out, smoothing it in the low orange glow of the fire. The handwriting was messy, hurried; Corvo wondered how Suleiman had managed to get his hands on a pen and a piece of paper down in the palace dungeons. Maybe a guard was sympathetic to him. Suleiman didn’t strike Corvo as the type who was particularly wealthy, so it was unlikely that he’d have been able to pay a guard off, to bribe them to bring him anything.

Corvo waved the thoughts away and continued. It didn’t matter how Suleiman had written the note, it was irrelevant. He had simply got distracted. Returning to the task at hand, Corvo picked the paper up off his lap and held it up close enough to his face to read it in the dim light. The chicken scratch handwriting was barely legible.

_Corvo - When the time comes, take my gift and return to the place where we first met. The situation is still recoverable, but we are all in great danger._

_-S_

The note made little sense to Corvo, but regardless he read it and then re-read it. When the time comes? Whenever it was, it clearly wasn’t now. He made a mental note of what the note said, and then tossed it into the dying embers, rearranging the coals so they covered the note and burnt it whole. _All of us?_ Surely he had meant _both of us_ , but he didn’t think Suleiman was the type to make such fundamental mistakes. He was too clever for that.

Not clever enough to avoid being caught though.

Really, it had been Corvo’s fault. Suleiman’s greatest blunder had been trusting Corvo in the first place.

Corvo stood up, dragged a low table from the other side of the room, then poured himself a glass of whiskey and knocked it back without thinking. He stared into the embers for some time, unwilling to face the two Overseers stationed outside his office. It made him sick to think that he’d allowed the situation to go this far. Jessamine and Emily would never have made the same mistakes as him. They would be disappointed. Maybe that was what hurt the most.

He groaned and held his head in his hands. Things were mounting up and weighing on his chest like a sack of bricks. His mind raced in circles, and eventually he got up and began to pace, from the desk to the window and then back again. And again. And again.

Maybe tomorrow at the party he would be able to convince Roman to let Suleiman go. He’d get the man very drunk, or convince him into indulging in white tobacco or habber weed - a man that pious would surely have little tolerance to drugs or excess booze, and once it was done…

He was loathe to see himself stoop this low. This wasn’t high politics, this was dirty back-alley dealings, an ambush in the dark. This wasn’t befitting of an Emperor.

But was he really an Emperor, an aristocrat who had been destined for this all his life? Or was he still just that skinny lad who had grown up in Karnaca, quick on his feet and good with a sword? More to the point, was Roman really a full-blooded, fanatical Overseer, or just some man from a poor part of Tyvia who’d lost his mother and never known his father? Who’d known nothing but poverty and devotion to the Abbey?

Corvo paced until the buzzing in his head reduced once again to silence. Then he returned to the office chair, stretched back, and slowly fell asleep to the flickering of the fire, the doors still locked and barricaded securely behind him.

* * *

Garrett inspected his bow carefully one last time. He had slept in late today, allowed himself to regain the energy needed to complete the job, and started planning as soon as he was able. Conveniently, after some searching, Garrett found that Bruno had a map of Dunwall stashed in one of the old drawers in the kitchen. It was aged and yellowed, but still legible, so Garrett took it, scampered back to the attic room and studied it intently.

The man in the red coat had mentioned a _Hallewell Manor_ last night when Garrett had been eavesdropping on his and Corvo’s conversation. He had recovered somewhat from the shock of seeing him so many years after his betrayal, but he had only recently started to become comfortable with the concept of his existence - the fact that he was a tangible, living, breathing human being like him, and not just a figment of his imagination, a bad dream that had been weighing on his mind. And the more the discomfort dissipated, the greater the feeling of rage that was slowly building up in the back of his mind, and a seedling of doubt. Was he really going to do this?

He felt that he would be throwing something away if he didn’t.

Parties, Garrett had known since he was small, often provided rich pickings for thieves such as him. Given a few hours, rich men would become drunk and sleepy and _complacent_ , fuelled by glasses of wine, shots of spirits, heavy food and smoky opium. It would make their minds slow and dull, would make it easy for him to tail them through corridors, to hide behind door frames and relieve them of their goods. Parties had happened back in the City, yes, particularly during the Summer Dance and Winter Feast festivals, and he’d taken full advantage of those when they’d still happened. The occurrence of the Gloom had all but put a stop to the larger parties, and the rich had become more insular, and therefore it was harder to get information on when and where they were happening. 

Maybe too many of the nobility had noticed that these parties were a risk to their belongings, their jewels and petty cash, but Garrett had also noticed that many of them had stopped smoking opium so much. He wasn’t sure if opium was a thing here in Dunwall as it was in the City, but maybe they had their own alternatives. If not, then booze should be good enough. Opium smoke was a danger anyway - too much of it in the air and the risk of damaging his own inhibitions became too great; he ran the risk of being caught.

He wondered if Corvo had dabbled in vices like opium. It was common knowledge that addictions weren’t exactly unheard of in the ruling class. He had seemed perfectly sober when Garrett had been observing him from the ventilation shaft.

Garrett snapped the bow shut with a _click_ , then took stock of the arrows nestled in his quiver. He didn’t think - _hoped_ he didn’t, anyway - that he would need to use any arrows at all. Manor houses full of rich people weren’t the best place to be letting off blast, fire or choke arrows, but if the worst came to the worst, then it would make it easier for him to escape by causing a distraction or a fire. The thought of choking smoke and red hot flames brought back memories of his clocktower’s demise, and the thought of having to use the fire arrows made him queasy. He set them aside under the bed, along with the satchel which contained the mechanical eye and the plans. There was no need for fire arrows anyway, the place would be well-lit. He could simply topple a candle.

He hadn’t had time since coming to Dunwall to completely restock his quiver, but he had managed to get his hands on some blunt arrows and sawtooths. He clipped them into his quiver, ensuring they were in the usual spot, and then stood up, adjusted his leathers, tested them by walking back and forth, and then strapped both his collapsed bow and quiver to his back.

It was time.

He exited via the window and closed it behind him, easing it back into the frame to avoid arousing suspicion caused by the noise. He left the key to the house on the window frame, and then swung himself up onto the gabled roof as he had done so many times before now. The night air was intoxicating - cool and still, albeit pungent with the smell of beer brewing in the Distillery District and dead whale from the Wrenhaven. He crouched, then sprang onto the next roof with care and well-time precision, the darkness of the night failing to dampen his awareness of his surroundings.

It must have been nearly midnight. The sun had been down for a long period of time now, several hours at the very least. He hopped from building to building, carefully avoiding all the obstacles he had mentally marked down when making the journey to the Estate District. It wasn’t far, anyway. 

Stopping on the balcony of one of the buildings, he pulled out the map and consulted it, carefully angling it to catch the light of a nearby street lamp. Not too far now. He scaled the edge of the building and looked in the direction of where the manor was supposed to be, but saw nothing. Bruno had told him that the Estate District was a hub for parties, thrown regularly by all the rich families that lived there, an endless game of politics, forging ties and destroying them over glasses of whiskey and long dances. Very long dances. It was only natural that the light from Hallewell Manor would be obscured by the lights of all the other goings-on of the district. He continued, climbing ever higher, avoiding the brightly lit streets below. 

It took him some searching, weaving back and forth across the roofs of the district before he spotted it. The spotlights weren’t coloured in deep reds and golds and blues here like the other houses, but in plain white. The house looked almost old; the garden wasn’t unkempt but consisted only of a flat lawn, when all the other large houses in the vicinity featured ornate shrubbery, marble patios and fountains. It was enclosed by a very tall brick wall, and further investigation showed that there appeared to be only one way in or out of the property, which was at the very front. A large gate connected the two ends of the wall, wrought in iron, with two of the masked men Garrett had seen the night before standing at either side. They stopped the odd stragglers who had turned up late and took invitations off him, inspected them, and then waved them in. There was no way that Garrett was going to be able to get in through that gate unless he distracted them. The wall didn’t look scaleable either, so unless he was planning on digging his way in, he was shit out of luck.

It was risky. But so was the whole job. So was stealing Corvo’s blade after everything that had happened.

He hopped from balcony to window ledge and then slid down a drain pipe, reaching the back garden on the house he had previously been perched on, while watching the men in the gold masks. This house, thankfully, had only a short wall, so he hopped over it and rounded the corner, observed the masked men from a distance.

The last time he had met masked men had been disastrous. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and tried to squash it.

Garrett hated having to resort to crude tactics such as this but it was all he could think of. He scanned the ground as best he could in the darkness, looking for a rock. After a few seconds, his eyes fell on one, and he picked it up. Turned it over in his hands. It looked heavy enough.

He shrouded himself with his cloak, crouched, then took aim.

The rock skittered across the ground many feet past the two bouncers, and instinctively their heads snapped to the source of the disturbance. They deliberated between themselves for a while, before one of them - the guard closest to Garrett, followed the rock into the night. 

Now was his chance.

Still crouched, sneaking lightly, he ducked in through the gates, past the other man who was following the other with his eyes, staring into the darkness. He sidestepped into the shadows behind the wall at the first opportunity, and then looked around. Beyond the wall, he heard the other guard returning to his post, and reporting on his findings, or lack thereof, to his coworker. Neither of them seemed any the wiser as to what had just happened.

The manor looked a lot more imposing now he was surrounded by the walls towering above him. It felt small, claustrophobic, unpleasant, although that might just have been the feeling that if he was caught, it was going to be a damn sight more difficult to escape with only one entrance. Regardless, he pressed on, aware of the fact that ruminating wouldn’t help; he was inside the walls now, it would be more dangerous to try to leave now than to carry on. He wasn’t going to let that anxious nagging feeling at the back of his brain get the better of him. It was dangerous, he had known that from the very start, but when had he got so jumpy?

Following the wall, maintaining refuge in the long shadows it cast across the lawn, he came to the house, where it met the wall via a barred fence. This too stretched into the sky like the wall did, and peeking through the bars, he saw a small and unlit garden on the other side, containing a well, a shed and a tree. The wall of the manor blocked off his view from the rest of the garden, so he took cover instead by the house and started searching along it for a window which he could use to gain access to the house.

A small, frosted window close to the ground revealed his lucky break. The room behind it - whatever it was - was unlit, and the glass itself tilted downwards along the very middle, allowing him space to slip through and into the building. His heart rate quickened as he wiggled through and fell, much longer than he had planned for or anticipated, and then landed on his feet, falling to his knees. He took a moment to collect himself, check he still had his bow and quiver as he had scraped his back falling from the window, then gave the room a quick glance and looked back up at the wall behind him. He must have fallen seven or eight feet in total.

He wouldn’t be able to get back out that way, not without great difficulty anyway. No matter. He was sure he’d find another exit, or simply wait until the party was over and find some safe way to leave then. He brushed himself off, then observed the rest of the room, giving his eyes a few moments to adjust to the low light levels. It was _cold_ in here. The walls were lined with racks of objects, which upon further investigation turned out to be meat and vegetables. They looked like vegetables, anyway, he hadn’t seen many of these types before. His diet in the City wasn’t exactly varied with a wide range of plants.

The room was probably a pantry, he thought. Rich people had pantries full of lots of food, beneath the rest of the house to stay cool, keep it all fresh. He resisted the urge to sweep the pantry for valuables, and moved on as soon as he was confident he could see where he was going. A heavy door set with a huge black wheel in the middle stood at the opposite end of the room, so Garrett walked up to it, twisted the wheel with some difficulty, and then swung the door open, letting himself into the rest of the house. The warm air rushed in, making him realise how cold the room had actually been, and the bright light temporarily blinded him. He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, and then moved on, shut the door behind him and turned the wheel-lock as quietly as possible. It wouldn’t do to be making mistakes as simple as leaving doors open in a place like this.

In front of him stood a short wooden staircase, with what looked like a corridor at the very top. Instinctively, he dropped to a crouch and listened carefully for the sound of nearby footsteps or voices, then looked around in the small stairwell for a light switch. Although he didn’t find one, it didn’t seem like there was anyone in the area, so he took a calculated risk and climbed the stairs, still crouched. His eyes confirmed that there was, in fact, nobody in the corridor, so he crept with speed to one of the doors on the left wall. It swung open on mercifully well-oiled hinges so he took a peek.

It was dark in here too. Looked like some kind of kitchen, maybe twice as big as the pantry via which he had first entered the manor. The walls were lined with more racks as well as cookers, ovens and countertops and a huge, long table sat in the very middle. It wasn’t cold in here like it had been in the pantry, but cooling, like the fires in the ovens had been put out a while ago now. It was odd that, at such a large party full of rich people _including the Emperor_ , there were no servants or maids in here. It was entirely possible, however, that all the food had already been made and served, and the workers were somewhere else, attending to other duties. 

Garrett scanned the room, searching for a safer way of getting through the house than walking through lit corridors. An air vent in the wall at the top of the wall on top of one of the cookers caught his eye, so he shut the door behind him and hopped onto the hob, then shimmied into the vent, trying not to cough. The fit was tight, even for him; he was lucky that he was even able to move through it, but he followed it anyway and crawled for some time.

As he crawled, he heard voices. Laughter. Heated discussions and the scrape of knives and forks on fine china. The clink of glasses. He ignored it and slowed his pace, taking great care to make as little noise as possible, and eventually, the air became much lighter and the vent dropped off into a small, musty-smelling cupboard. He hauled himself out and stretched, brush the dust off himself and looked around once again.

This place was unremarkable. A cleaning cupboard of some sort, with brooms and buckets and mops scattered here and there in a cluttered fashion. The ceiling of the room was ridged like the underside of a staircase, matted in cobwebs and dead spiders. He climbed over the assorted mountains of _stuff_ to the door, a considerably older and smaller one than the door to the kitchen, and he looked through the keyhole. Listened intently.

Yet another corridor. Not grand like he had expected it to be, but instead slightly dishevelled, with stained wood on the floor and peeling wallpaper and the smell of some kind of disinfectant. The lights, although not turned off, were dimmed and flickered on and off, as if the power delivered to them was being interrupted. Waiting a few more minutes to check that nobody was going to run into him, he pushed at the door, which creaked open, and shrouded himself. It looked like maybe it wasn’t meant to be accessed by the guests of the party, like it might be where the servants were expected to work, to bring dirty washing and dishes to the laundry room and… wherever it was that the rich cleaned their dishes. Maybe back to the kitchen. It did seem very strange to him that he hadn’t even noticed any indication that servants were present, as if the rich were running things by themselves. That was a foreign concept. Judging by the direction in which he had travelled while crawling through the vent, it seemed that the kitchen and pantry were just down the corridor, through a door on the far end.

He himself had emerged from the cleaning cupboard and found that, indeed, it was underneath a staircase, which was enclosed on the far side and the back by a wall with no windows. The place felt stuffy and unpleasant - the concept of not even being able to see the outside triggered some kind of primal fear in him, like he was being enclosed, caged in. 

He looked down the corridor, checking once again for footsteps. When he was sure he was in the clear, he looked down towards the wall, meaning to make for the stairs and get to the bedroom of some rich bastard and steal some fancy gold trinket when he noticed a door in an alcove in the wall. 

This door didn’t match the decor of the rest of the corridor at all. It was a tall thing; black with gold piping, a shiny silver doorknob and decorative metalwork around the lock. Orange light spilled out from underneath the door, illuminating the smoothness of the worn floorboards. Garrett could hear the chatting and laughing much louder now. He could smell roasted meat and alcohol and tobacco.

And some kind of new smell, something unknown to him. If he could make one guess at what it was, he suspected it would be some kind of drug. Almost like opium but not quite. He took stock of his state of mind, watching carefully for any changes in his mood or movements or the appearance of the corridor on the off chance that it would make him clumsy, but nothing appeared to change, so he stooped down towards the keyhole, readjusting the scarf across his mouth and nose, leaning in towards the light.

It took his eye a few minutes to get used to the bright candle light on the other side of the door. It was a ballroom, large in every possible aspect of the word, the ceiling tall and decorated with floral swirls, rimmed with some kind of ledge. It was also long and wide: easily large enough to contain hundreds of people, but it wasn’t even nearly full to capacity. Roughly half the people in the room were wearing the same gold masks as the men guarding the front gates, the ones with the blue coats standing at the edges of the room looking solemnly at the guests, and a few with red coats standing around drinking and smoking. The other half of the room contained other people, some masked, others not. The masks of some of the other guests tended to be much more decorative than those of the guards, adorned with bright colours, sequins and feathers. Garrett stared. It was much more vibrant - dare he say beautiful - than anything he had seen in the City. Maybe the Dunwall elite were simply much richer.

Looking closely at some of the guests, he started looking for signs of Corvo’s presence. He noticed his grip at the door frame was becoming much tighter than he meant it to be and his palms had become slick with sweat, so he loosened his grip, unclenched his teeth and carried on looking. The women were in dresses of all different colours, and some sat by the tables at the edge of the room. Some people were dancing in the middle of the floor, like a show of flowers. Some were talking by the walls. One man, sat by a young woman with short, dark hair was engrossed in a thick book while she looked on haughtily. None of them were Corvo. So where was he…?

It took him a little while longer, but eventually he spotted the man in the red coat that he had seen talking with Corvo the night before. He was leaning on a carved wooden cane, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other gesturing while he talked. The man he was talking to had his back turned to the door that Garrett was hiding behind, but with further observation as the man shuffled where he stood, Garrett could tell that it was Corvo. Tall. Bearded. Salt-and-pepper hair. The folding sword sat secured in a scabbard clipped securely to his belt.

Garrett’s mind wandered. How would he even get to the sword without being spotted? He knew there must be some way to do it, even if he had to wait until the very early hours of the morning and the party thinned out. Maybe he could cause a distraction.

His mind raced.

* * *

Corvo was on his third glass of whiskey, and didn’t plan on slowing down for the rest of the night. He had _never_ liked parties, had only ever really attended them when he had to and never without Jessamine or Emily, and generally avoided most social situations like this. The other rich families had always made it quite clear that they disapproved of his Serkonan accent, his supposed lack of manners (Serkonan manners and customs were markedly dissimilar to Gristolian etiquette), and his background as a working-class immigrant. He avoided the stuck-up bastards if he could ever help it, and usually showered more than once after he was done. The whole thing made him feel slightly dirty. Even now as the Emperor, although the outright jibes and cutting remarks he had suffered while the Royal Protector were no longer bothering him, he could still see the side-eyes of the nobility. He could hear the disapproval in their voices. He could sense them talking about him behind his back.

It had stopped hurting years ago, when he was still a lad. Even as a young man the vultures had been merciless, but it had gone some way to help him think up sharp words to throw back at them. He had honed this skill to a sharp point.

He’d never had this attitude from Roman. The man was an immigrant himself. He could understand at least part of what Corvo had suffered at court and at the stuffy dances he hadn’t been able to wiggle out of. Roman, however, seemed to have managed to turn them to his advantage as a charming man with a talent for words.

Despite this, Corvo had still tried to avoid him at the party. He had turned up several hours late and planned on getting as drunk as humanly possible before going home early. He had turned his face to the wall, studying the panelling when Roman had walked into the room, but it hadn’t discouraged him. Corvo’s stomach sank when he heard Roman’s voice next to him, and he turned, barely able to contain his annoyance.

“What is it?”

Roman smiled sweetly and offered him a plate of fruit and apricot tartlets. “If you eat while you drink, you’ll be able to drink for longer.”

Corvo stared at him for a moment, and then downed the rest of his whiskey in one, maintaining eye contact with Roman the whole time. He finished drinking, his face still blank, then took the plate off him and set it down on a nearby table. “That’s kind of the point,” he said, the buzz of the alcohol beginning to kick in, “If I want to eat tartlets I can have them in the palace. They’re not exactly hard to come by.”

Roman _tsked_ and walked around to face Corvo head-on, his heels clicking smartly on the floor. “You know you didn’t have to come, right?”

“And how bad would that have looked on me?” Corvo said, “You announced the thing to the whole damn world. I don’t need any more bad publicity. I need to at least appear like I’m keeping you in check.”

_“That’s_ what you think of me?” Roman said, barely managing to contain a smirk, “It’s not nearly as bad as you think. There are a lot of influential people here. We could both use some allies, maybe help us sort out this little mess we’ve both gotten ourselves into.”

Sure enough, the room was filled with some of the richest people in Dunwall. Theo, Jacques and his apprentice Lucy had all been invited and seemed to huddle together in a small group, isolated from the rest of the partygoers, but there were others too. A Serkonan ambassador, Giovanni Ciotti, was dancing in the middle of the room with his wife, Giulia. They had only appeared recently on a trip to secure more funding from the Empire, and had been invited by Corvo personally. The guestlist hadn’t been restricted to only the politically influential, however. Bill Bevis, certifiably the richest man in Dunwall, a frail-looking man in his 70s, was talking with them as well, looking completely at ease. At least he wasn’t out of his element. Bevis was the owner of a large whale oil company, profiting from the sudden explosion of whale oil tech, and Dunwall’s close proximity to the Wrenhaven and hence the sea. His daughter looked set to take over his whale oil empire when he died, but had not been able to make it to the party, taken ill with a bout of the flu.

“Where’s Alexandria?” Corvo asked absentmindedly, turning his whiskey glass around in his hands, “If Theo and Jacques and even Lucy are invited, then where’s she?”

A pause. Corvo was still staring at the ambassador and Bevis, so he stepped in front of his and broke his line of sight and ignored Corvo’s question. “A dance?”

Corvo did a double take and then blinked. “Where’s Alexandria?” he repeated.

“If you dance with me I’ll tell you,” Roman said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Corvo waited for a moment, then sighed and followed him out onto the dance floor. He wasn’t sure what kind of game Roman was playing but he didn’t want to join in. Roman stood with his back straight, staring him down stiffly, despite his smaller stature, and held out his hands for Corvo to join.

Corvo took them, noticing how cold they were. The whole thing made him uncomfortable. He had never danced in public before, rarely even danced in private, and to dance with a man with whom he had such a strained relationship, both in his private life and the public sphere…

Playing the game would be best for now. Lull him into a false sense of security and then pull back, throw him off when Roman least expected it. They joined hands and began to step in time to the music, back and forth, one step crossed over the other, then turned. Twisted. People were staring. Corvo could feel their eyes on his back. Some were laughing.

“Where’s Alexandria?” Corvo repeated, more forcefully this time as Roman led him around the dancefloor, stiff but appearing to have a good time. There was no response once again, and a steward walked up to them with a tray with two whiskey glasses. Corvo took one and downed it without a second thought, hoping to wipe this incident from his mind, then looked at Roman.

“Oh no, I won’t,” Roman said to the waiter, “I don’t like whiskey. I’ll get something from the table when we’re done.”

Corvo, annoyed by the repeated avoidance of his question, took the second glass and drank that where they stood, cringing at the taste. “Is this new?”

“We had a special Tyvian whiskey imported for this very event,” Roman said, “Do you like it?”

Corvo deposited the glass on the waiter’s tray once again and waved him off, “No, not really. Are you going to answer my question or do I have to leave right now before I make a fool of myself?”

“Fine, fine,” Roman said, “I’ll tell you where she is if you teach me one of your Serkonan dances. I’ve always thought they were very beautiful.”

“That’s enough,” Corvo shot back, very annoyed now, breaking his hold with Roman, and he saw people staring out of the corner of his eye, “Why wasn’t she invited? Are you up to something?”

Roman’s expression darkened and he stepped back, crossed his arms. “If you really must know, I asked her to look after Bevis’s daughter. She’s not in a good way, and she could do with the care of an experienced doctor like herself.”

That… wasn’t quite the answer Corvo had expected. He stood back for a moment, and then relaxed slightly. “Couldn’t you have found another doctor? Why did you have to do it and not him?”

“Bevis doesn’t really trust anyone else, and I wanted him to come to this party. I thought he could be a valuable asset in these times. If we struck up a deal with him, it could be very beneficial for the Empire, for both of us.”

Corvo chewed on the inside of his cheek, unsure of whether he was satisfied with the answer or not, and then joined hands with Roman, and once again they began to dance in time with the music.

Step left. Step right. Twirl. Arm over head. _Lean._

He could feel Roman’s body begin to loosen up beneath his hands and the dance became quicker. He misstepped and then regained his posture, ignoring Roman’s amused little glance. 

A few minutes more passed. The music seemed to get quicker and the room hotter. Left, right left, right. His ankle twisted. He cursed himself for being so clumsy. For making a fool of himself.

A couple more steps. 

Then his knee gave out.

His heart felt like it was pounding but he didn’t know why. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps and nausea rose from his gut. He tried with every ounce of his strength to get back to his feet but it was like a switch had flipped in his brain. He pitched forwards and landed head first on the floor to the sound of screams. With the last of his strength, he turned his head to the left and then felt himself being hoisted onto his back by Roman and a couple of the guards.

They were shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear them. His brain was filled with a static buzzing.

Roman looked panicked. He shook Corvo and pointed at one of the waiters, presumably asking them for a glass of water.

The ground spun beneath him. Jacques was suddenly by his side and looked white as a sheet.

Was this it?

Poisoned by some random servant?

What a way to die.

He should know by now. Why hadn’t he learned after Havelock?

“Corvo!” he heard Roman shouting somewhere in the distance, “Corvo!”

No Samuel to save him now.

* * *

Garrett had been plotting, planning a way to get in there and steal the sword, watching them dancing when Corvo dropped like in slow motion.

Noise erupted from the ballroom making him cringe and resist the temptation to cover his ears. He _knew_ he had to run, that this really, _really_ wasn’t safe now, that he’d gotten himself into a lot more trouble than he had bargained for, but something held him, transfixed by the scene.

Corvo had gone so pale so quickly. He was rolled onto his back and then Garrett’s view was obscured by the legs of many other people crowding around him, calling out his name. Something pulled at Garrett’s gut, a feeling that he had buried deep down for so long. He felt the need to run, to go and help somehow. Corvo had been a bastard but he didn’t deserve to die.

And neither did Garrett.

If he broke his cover now, it was likely he’d be shot on sight. He _couldn’t_ risk it, but neither could he just get up and leave. His mouth was bone dry. His heart leapt against his ribcage.

He watched the commotion in the ballroom, transfixed. There were so many people, so many flashes of colour. Some of the guests had begun to leave the room in a hurry, clearly unwilling to be associated with the death of the Emperor. Most, however, stayed.

One of the men hoisted Corvo up into a sitting position and tried to shake him awake to no avail. Another paced back and forth to the side of the whole scene, sweating profusely. Then he dropped too.

That was when the screaming really began.

It was seconds before another man collapsed and the ballroom erupted into chaos. People were pushing, shoving, screaming, yelling, anything to get out of the room. The masked men at the sides of the room had sprung into action, detaining anyone who tried to leave the room, shouting that they needed to find who had poisoned the Emperor. It became a unified effort, with the uniformed men pushing against the guests trying to flee, and all the while, partygoers kept collapsing.

He really needed to leave. He needed to find a safe way out and run and never look back.

There was a moment where his senses seemed to become very sharp. He stopped focusing on the scene unfolding in the ballroom, then made to step back from the carnage. There were footsteps. Loud footsteps. Heavy breathing, and not from inside the ballroom.

He didn’t care about silence any more.

He leapt up and bolted for the cleaning cupboard under the stairs.

The footsteps behind him quickened into a run but Garrett didn’t stop to look to see where they were coming from or who they belonged to. The cupboard was only feet away. If he was quick enough, he might just make it. 

One step after another. He tripped. Regained his balance and reached for the door.

A large hand grabbed his shoulder so Garrett abruptly changed tack and swung, blindly threw a punch. It didn’t make contact. The hand - or the person that the hand belonged to - shifted its grip upwards to the side of his head and then _pushed._ Garrett’s head made contact with the wall and, stunned, he briefly stood stuck to the floor, unsure of quite what was happening. 

Then he tried to throw another punch.

The person, unfazed, took him again by the neck, lifting Garrett up until he was standing on the tips of his toes just to keep breathing, and then _flung_ him back into the wall.

This time, Garrett didn’t get back up.

* * *

“... fucked up… sorry… other woman… dead...”

A voice floated in and out.

“Fuck the other… you… leave him in here… sort itself out…”

A lock clicked open and then a wave of cold air washed over him. He felt himself arcing through the air, then dropped to the ground. He heard the people slam the door shut behind them, then the lock clicked again, and the sound of footsteps got quieter and quieter until there was nothing but silence and darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think about updates on Friday?
> 
> Also I made a post about who I think would be ideal acting as different characters in this fanfic on [Tumblr](https://ledaeus.tumblr.com/post/186076429755/house-of-pandora-dream-cast). I haven't come up with an idea for who should play Garrett so if you have an idea then let me know!


	5. Day 0, Part 1: To Make Do and Mend

Day 0, Part 1

* * *

Nothing.

Nothing but silence and darkness.

Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked quietly. A spider scurried across the floor and crawled across the back of Garrett’s hand.

He stirred. His hand twitched reflexively and the spider scuttled off across the ground and disappeared into a crack between the floorboards, crawling into the darkness. There were no windows in this room, or was it just night time? He didn’t know. Didn’t care to know. His head throbbed where it had made contact with the wall so he groaned and curled in on himself, grimacing, shaking. Nausea roiled in his stomach.

But he couldn’t just go back to sleep. Something screamed at him in the back of his mind, telling him that he was in danger, that he had to _get out now._ He rolled onto his back and groaned again, waiting for the room to stop spinning around him. He noticed that the bow and quiver were gone from his back, although the rest of his gear hadn’t been touched; he still had his hood, his scarf, his gloves complete with lockpicks… They, whoever they were, had clearly not looked hard enough.

It took a while, he wasn’t sure exactly how long, but eventually more of his senses came back to him, along with a realisation.

_He was being watched._

He could feel eyes on him. He’d worked in the dark for long enough to know when he was being observed and when he wasn’t, more of a strange, prickly feeling than anything else. He stayed still on the ground, _very much aware_ that whoever - or whatever - was watching him, he would be unable to fight off. Playing dead was the next best bet.

Eventually, however, the feeling of being watched became too strong. There was shuffling. Murmured voices, although he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. He braced himself, and then moved, forced his aching muscles to work, pulled himself into a sitting position and stumbled to his knees, unsteady.

The room was still too dark, and he was still too weak. He swayed where he stood, scanning the blackness for some indication as to who was out there, how many people, where they were from and why they were here with him. Did they intend on hurting him? He felt panic rising in his throat like bile and he was suddenly all too aware of his ragged breathing, the product of both his compromised state and the fear of having woken up in a room with an unknown number of occupants.

“Easy,” a voice said, “Sit back down or you’re going to hurt yourself. I’m not sure what they hit us with but it’s rough. Rest for a bit and then get back up in a few minutes.”

Garrett wasn’t sure where the voice had come from, but he ignored it in favour of maintaining his standing position and then scanned the room with his Primal eye. It was only half a second but it gave him more than enough information; there were, indeed, several people in the room, six, seven, maybe even more. Most were sitting down on the floor, some with their backs to the walls, but a couple were still lying on the floor, heads turned towards him. 

His stomach dropped and his mouth went dry. His breathing was still heavy and laboured, the world was beginning to spin around him once again; he took one then two steps away from the group of people, meaning to break into a sprint, to get away from them, but his knee gave out and he fell to the floor once again, just as a pair of hands closed around his shoulders. Still unsettled, Garrett lurched forward and pried the hands off his shoulders, stumbled backwards, cried out and the man’s silhouette stepped back, hands up in the air. 

His stomach twisted again and a knot sat in his throat. How had he managed to get himself into this situation? He barely even remembered what had been happening before he’d passed out and now he was here, in a room with a group of strangers with unknown intentions, some, if not most, of whom were without question much stronger than him. Subconsciously he reached for his bow, but came up with nothing. Even though he had already been aware that it wasn’t on his person, it didn’t stop the feeling of _utter helplessness_ that washed over him when his hand closed around thin air. Instead of reaching for a weapon to defend himself with, he simply scooted himself backwards, as far away from the stranger as he could go, until his back made contact with the panelled wall and he huddled in. Made himself look as small as possible. His eyes were still adjusting to the low levels of light, but it was now very clear, even without the aid of the Primal, that he was very much not alone.

The situation dredged up _too many memories_ of what he’d endured before. He shivered.

He must have been one of the last people to come to. As the man stood up and backed off towards the group of people on the other side of the room, Garrett noted the smaller details of his surroundings. There were low murmurs. Men and women. Voices that he’d surely have to get used to and learn to distinguish between if he wanted to survive.

_If he wanted to survive._

He was loathe to jump to the conclusion that this was such a dangerous situation so quickly but he had no other choice. What had he been doing…? He had been stalking a party full of rich people, maybe been looking at what the most expensive things were in the ballroom, what would bring him the most infamy. The place had been closely guarded, of course, but surely that was just to discourage those who hadn’t been invited from attending? Surely that was normal, simply a given for a party like this?

He didn’t know.

A memory sprang to his mind. A thought. He had been there to steal the folding sword. Thoughts and memories interconnected very quickly and led to one another, revealing to him the truth (or what he thought was the truth) about the situation.

Corvo had been there. Garrett had been staking the party out, tracking Corvo’s movements, carefully calculating the best time to strike, thinking up distractions and alternatives, anything that would allow him to pull off what would have been, without a doubt, one of the best heists in Dunwall’s history. But there had been a problem.

Corvo had been poisoned.

His stomach tied itself into anxious knots. There was no question about it: whoever had plotted Corvo’s poisoning had _something_ to do with him ending up in this room full of strangers. Was Corvo still alive? Had he died instantly? Had it been one of the servants with a grudge or a higher power instigating some kind of coup? Considering what Bruno had told Garrett several weeks earlier, Corvo wasn’t the most popular of Emperors, and plenty still believed that he was to blame for the Rat Plague and the Empire’s troubles of recent times, so either theory was entirely plausible, but whoever it was that had thrown Garrett in this room full of strangers obviously wasn’t going to show their cards that easily.

Squinting, he tried to make some sense of the darkness. Of the conversations happening at the other side of the room. Both were as murky and incomprehensible as each other, and nobody tried talking to him after the man who had tried to get him to sit back down.

His mind raced, flitting from one disturbing conclusion to another, none bringing him any comfort or solace. Minutes - or hours - passed. Someone started crying softly and then eventually stopped again. His head pounded from where he had been hit over and over.

And then it happened.

A low buzzing came from… somewhere nearby. It sounded like it might have been coming from the walls or the ceiling, but the murmurs and whispers of the other people in the room stopped abruptly and Garrett could hear them turning their heads, looking up and around. Panic began to rise in his throat as the buzzing got louder, and he huddled in on himself, pushed himself up as close to the panelled wood at his back as he could, drew his knees to his chest and waited. Waited. Didn’t know what he was waiting for, but knew it couldn’t possibly be good.

There was a soft _click._ And then he was blinded.

He covered his face by instinct as the backs of his eyeballs burned in pain. He heard cries from some of the other people in the room, and although he couldn’t see them, he was fairly certain that the rest of them had covered their faces too. More minutes passed. Periodically, Garrett tried to re-open his eyes, to gain _some_ control of the situation, even if it just meant being able to see whoever else was in the room before any of them could see who he was, but every time he tried to remove the palms of his hands from his eyes, his eyes would burn in pain yet again. He was sure the backs of his eyes were burning. It was so bright. It hurt so bad.

Slowly, painstakingly, the pain melted away. His eyes became accustomed to the light of the room and he found himself able to open his eyes once again without being temporarily blinded once again. It seemed like all the lights in the room had been turned on at once; all the lamps, the lights on the ceiling, everything had been turned on. They buzzed softly, still audible to Garrett but apparently not to anyone else. The others had fallen into silence, most still unable to open their eyes, but some looking around.

The first thing Garrett did was look for the exits. The room was big, a lot bigger than it had seemed in the pitch blackness. He had managed to huddle himself towards the wall on the longer edge of the room, but also right in the middle lengthwise. The other group, as uninteresting they were to Garrett, were sat diagonally across from him, closer to the wall on the other side of the room, jumbled together in a tangled mess. Some of them, it seemed, had not managed to extricate themselves in the darkness, and were now preoccupied with sorting themselves out, finding their own space. There were three doors: a large double set at the end of the room, and two on the long wall opposite Garrett on either side, one towards the grand set of double doors at the far end of the chamber, and the second on the far side, as if the room were mirrored across the middle. At the point exactly halfway between them stood a fireplace which, unsurprisingly, was not lit. He prepared himself to make a break for one of the doors, the set that were furthest away from the huddle of people, then stopped.

This room was familiar.

Not only was the room familiar, the faces of some of the people still recovering from the sudden bright light were also familiar. Disturbingly familiar. He felt a chill run up his spine.

This was the ballroom that he had been looking into while planning how to get the folding sword.

His heart quickened yet again as his stomach turned itself in knots. He scanned the faces of the people who were in the group on the other side of the room more carefully now he had a way planned out, daring to confront his worst nightmare.

It, or rather, _he_ , was staring right back at him.

It was Corvo.

His face was pale, his lips nearly white, presumably still recovering from whatever his drink had been spiked with. His hair was matted and dishevelled, his eyes dark and ringed with purple shadows, his clothes creased and dirty from lying on the floor for _however long he had been lying there._ He was shaking, visibly (although whether that was from the fear, the spiked drink, or the shock of seeing Garrett after all these years was another question), and looked like he was about to pass out again.

Garrett certainly felt that way too.

He didn’t wait any longer. He had seen enough. He clambered back to his feet and found that he, too, was shaking, albeit not enough to stop him from attempting to escape from the situation. He stifled a whine as he shuffled to the door as quickly as he could manage without being sick and jiggled the handle frantically. He _needed to get away._ He couldn’t handle this, not now, not ever. The door did nothing. He could feel Corvo’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The room was in complete and utter silence.

He didn’t know what to do. There was no _fucking_ way he could turn around and look Corvo in the eye after _eight years._ His attempts to leave became progressively more frantic, grunting as he began to attempt to force the lock, didn’t want to have to use his lockpicks to get out but knew any way out would be better than staying here. He needed to leave, _now._

Another _click_ , but louder this time. The handle beneath his fingers suddenly gave way and the door swung open abruptly, creaking loudly in protest. Garrett stepped across the threshold, still shaking violently, then slammed the door behind him and disappeared into the darkness of the house, looking frantically for an exit. For a way out.

Behind him, he left the ballroom in tense silence.

* * *

“Did you… Who was…?” Lucy asked, looking periodically between the set of double doors and Corvo, “Who’s he?”

Lucy had a point. Everyone else in the room was familiar, had been present at the ball although by no means were all the ballgoers here; there were only six of them. Corvo, as sick as he felt, looked around, repeatedly checking the room for those present, but kept losing count and had to start over. There was him, Lucy, Jacques and Theo, who was sat furthest in the corner, white as a sheet and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Giovanni, the ambassador from Serkonos, was already up and pacing the room back and forth, his wife notably absent from the hall, and Bill Bevis, the man who Roman had been waiting on for funding, sat with his back to the wall looking particularly annoyed. If Bevis was here, then where was Roman? He had been relying on Bevis for funding, had been aggressively pitching what the Abbey of the Everyman could do to help his company given some amount of cash to better outfit the Warfare Overseers and enact programs to improve the community. 

There were six of them.

Not six. Seven.

He had been _told_ that someone had been sneaking around in Dunwall tower the day before. He had been _told._ But why would it ever have come to this? How could he _possibly_ have predicted that it was _him?_ It had been years. Why would he come to Dunwall now, of all times? 

To tell the truth, Corvo was surprised that Garrett was still alive. Even back then he had been poor at taking care of himself. He had nearly died at least twice while Corvo had known him, had repeatedly gotten himself into trouble with unsavoury characters in the streets of the City. Even that was saying something, considering Garrett was quite possibly one of the most unsavoury characters it was possible to meet.

But something must have gone very wrong for his appearance to change so drastically. Even though he had filled out a bit from when Corvo had known him, the extensive scarring down the side of his face was a shock to Corvo. Jarring, even. The scars were old, they had long since whitened, but they were still very visible against Garrett’s pale skin. He still covered himself from head to toe in black, still tried to hide himself away from the eyes of others - if anything, he seemed even more paranoid than he had done before. His efforts to remove himself from the room once he caught sight of Corvo had been bordering on frantic.

Suddenly a thought hit him. There was no real reason that Garrett would be here _simply by chance._ Corvo knew that the political situation in the City was unpleasant, but the chance of Garrett, by chance alone, ending up in Dunwall, in this specific house, on this specific night, were zero. He had to have been tracking someone, and if Corvo were to guess, he assumed it would have been him. But why would Garrett be tailing him now, of all the times? It had taken Corvo a very long time to heal from what had happened in the City, had taken him a long time to forgive himself for making that kind of mistake, but he had indeed moved on. Garrett, it appeared, hadn’t. A pang of pity twisted at his guts. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to rest easy until he found Garrett again and at least attempted to apologise for what had happened, if he would stick around long enough to listen. Garrett had clearly already left the house, or was currently finding a way out. Either way, Corvo didn’t feel well enough to attempt to follow him.

There was a moment of silence. Giovanni continued to pace up and down the room distractedly. He was large and well-dressed, bordering on foppish, with a carefully-styled moustache and a round pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose which he kept re-adjusting. He had a vacant look in his eyes, distracted, not quite sure of what he should do next and seemingly incapable of bringing himself to leave the room. Occasionally he glanced back at the group of people, but said nothing.

Bevis watched him from where he was sitting, then eventually stood up too, propping himself up against the wall, leaning heavily on it for support. Momentarily, he looked like he was about to pass out again, but doubled over for a moment, squeezed his eyes shut, then regained his balance, walked to one of the chairs at the far end of the room, and sat down. He looked fatigued. Slouched down in the chair. Held a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes at the bridge of his nose.

“Is it too much to ask what in the Outsider’s name is going on?” Jacques finally asked, breaking the silence. Several people, including Corvo, jumped at the sudden question and turned to look at him, except Giovanni, who continued to pace. He looked unhinged.

“I’m not sure,” Theo said from where he was still sat, “We were at that party and then… Well I remember you dropping, Corvo.”

Corvo didn’t want to know. He ignored Theo’s statement and continued staring at the floor in front of him, his arms wrapped around his knees, buried in his thoughts. He knew what had happened, roughly. But why? Who had poisoned him? And why had they poisoned Bevis, Giovanni, Lucy, Jacques and Theo too? What would happen to Emily? Was it just some servant with a grudge, or something more concerning?

He finally collected himself enough to calm his buzzing thoughts. He rose to his feet slowly, suddenly feeling all his age, and like Bevis, held onto the wall to steady himself. The ballroom looked a lot more sparse now it had just six occupants. “We should head back. I can summon a carriage for those of you who need it. I’ll be asking a lot of questions about what’s happened here and I can assure you whoever it was will be brought to justice. Nothing lost right now, though. Best just go home and get some rest.” The other occupants, except Giovanni, nodded and also rose to their feet. Lucy headed to Theo’s side and took his arm, hauling him into an upright position. Theo smiled weakly back at her, graciously accepting her support.

“Roman seemed panicked,” Jacques said, searching in his pockets and pulling out a case of cigarettes and a lighter. He took a moment, hiding his face in his hands as he lit the cigarette, the snapped both the case and the lighter shut and tucked them in his back pocket, “I guess you would be if the Emperor was poisoned at your own party. Frantic, he was.”  
That wasn’t what Corvo had expected. If anyone was responsible, in Corvo’s opinion, it was probably Roman. He was ready to strip him of his position and exile him back to Tyvia if it turned out he was responsible, but if he wasn’t… Well, if he wasn’t, then he was probably at fault in some form or another anyway, even if it was simply by not thoroughly checking his staff’s credentials. Whose manor was this anyway?

“I’ll have to have a word with him when I get back,” Corvo said distractedly, then headed for the double doors that Garrett had left through earlier. Momentarily, he considered sending everybody else back to the Palace and continuing to look for Garrett in the manor and around the Estate District, then thought better of it. He had duties to attend to, and if Garrett didn’t want to see Corvo, then no amount of searching for him would yield results. He helped Theo through the door, then watched Giovanni from the other side of the room and called out to him. “Are you coming?”

Giovanni stopped, turned, and finally looked at Corvo. His eyes were wild and red and ringed with dark circles, his hair dishevelled, his hands wringing. “Giulia isn’t here.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Corvo said in what he hoped sounded like a reassuring voice, “She’s probably back at the Palace. We must have just had a bad reaction to something in the food. Come on, let’s go.”

Giovanni paused, an extended silence, and then finally nodded, shuffled towards the door and Corvo’s outstretched arm, and then left through it. Corvo scanned the ballroom one final time for anything that he’d missed, and then shut the door behind them with a soft _click._

It was indeed dark in the house. The lights hadn’t come on in here like that had turned on in the ballroom unprompted. The main entrance was a few feet from the ballroom, down a corridor and then out an even larger pair of double doors, and the rest of the group were huddled by it. What was the issue? Why hadn’t they opened it yet? It was creepy enough having to stay in an unfamiliar house bordering on pitch-blackness with a thief who may or may not have had a serious grudge against him. Corvo and Giovanni drew up to the rest of the group, annoyed.

“What’s the hold up?” he asked, and tried the door handle.

Nothing. It felt like it was jammed.

He tried it again, more vigorously this time. The attempt yielded no results at all. Corvo felt his stomach sink. Had Garrett locked them inside? He knew the man was good at opening locks, had he expanded his skillset to involve closing them too? Jamming them shut?

Jacques flicked open his lighter and used it to shine a small, dim light on the lock. It didn’t look like it had been damaged in any way, so it was probably just locked. There must have been another way out of the house.

“Locked,” Corvo said, as if nobody else had noticed, then turned around, “Does anyone know of any other way out?”

There were shrugs. Murmurs. Nobody else, it seemed, had any idea about how the house was laid out or how else to leave. There had been no obvious other route from the limited amount of the house they had seen during the ball, and nobody had actually seen any windows yet; the whole place looked like it was almost entirely artificially lit. From the outside, it looked like there had been windows on the first floor, although they were both barred and too far up to fall from safely, so escape routes were limited to exits on the ground floor. Corvo sighed in annoyance. The headache and nausea from the spiked drink still hadn’t abated. He needed to find somewhere to lie down.

They looked at each other for a moment longer, still illuminated by Jacques’ lighter. Lucy shrugged. “Split up then?”

“May be a good idea,” Jacques said, still half way through his cigarette, “One room each? It shouldn’t take long. Someone should search the upper floors as well, just in case. Corvo?”

Corvo nodded in agreement. “How will we--”

He was cut off suddenly by the chiming of a grandfather clock, and jumped violently. The hall was so dark that they hadn’t seen the clock standing there, a couple of feet away from the door. Corvo clutched his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and counted.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

Six. Six in the morning or six in the evening? They looked at each other for a moment before there was another dull buzzing noise, and in due course, the lights in the hallway flickered on, illuminating their surroundings. Must be six in the morning. They had been passed out until about four, so that must mean they had been asleep for three or four hours.

“I don’t like this,” Jacques said, crossing his arms across his chest as he continued to smoke, “It’s never a good sign when someone dictates when you have to get up and go to bed.”

“Then let’s find a way out,” Theo said, “We can meet in the ballroom when the clock strikes seven. Keep an ear out for it in case there aren’t any other clocks around. With luck, one of us will have found a way out and we can leave.”

“You don’t…” Lucy began, “You don’t think that man…?”

“We don’t think that man has anything to do with this?” Bevis said from the back of the group, his arms crossed over his chest, “I do. Bunch of important people wake up in a strange place with someone like _him?_ He’s bad news.”

“If he hasn’t left already,” Jacques continued, cutting Bevis off much to his chagrin, “I tell you what, just take a good thorough look around, and we’ll meet back like we said earlier. Corvo can take the first floor and the rest of us will split up down here. Good?”

Bevis pursed his lips but said nothing. An implicit agreement. Jacques nodded at Corvo, who nodded back, then turned and headed into the rest of the house, looking for a way up to the first floor. Behind him, he heard the others breaking up and heading in different directions, leaving the corridor in silence. It didn’t take him long to find the staircase.

It was a grand thing. It curled up into the first floor, the bannister a burnished gold, the carpets a deep red with pale yellow floral patterns. It looked like it hadn’t been tended to in years, however; the carpet was threadbare and underneath, the stone was worn and stained from years of use. A chandelier hung up above, but there were pieces of clear crystal missing from the decorative arrangement, and one or two of the light bulbs had blown filaments. He observed his surroundings for a moment, then proceeded up the stairs, noting how slippery they felt beneath his feet.

He wondered what could possibly have happened to the previous inhabitants. The place looked like it had been cleaned up a bit recently but it was only a cover. Simply looking at the state of the walls and the floor gave away a lot more information about the place than the hastily swept carpets: this place was old. It hadn’t really been lived in for years.

The first floor was well-lit, like the ground floor. A corridor stretched out in both directions, to the left and the right, lined with doors, so Corvo started by heading off to the left and opening them, searching for a way out. The first door on the far side of the corridor swung open easily, with a loud creak. The place smelled clean, yet cold. The linen laying on a four-poster double bed was fresh and white, there were pale flowers behind barred windows that smelled sweet and pleasant. Wooden sets of drawers sat by the door, as well as a small bookcase that held plenty of books. The window revealed the pale light of the early morning, which splashed a light purple across the floor. Out of interest, Corvo unlatched the window, pulled it open, and tested the width of the bars. Quite clearly, it wouldn’t be large enough even to get his whole arm through. He swung the window shut again, slightly annoyed at his own optimism; it would be impossible to fall down without severely injuring himself anyway.

Instead, he turned around and headed out the door, leaving it open to remind himself which rooms he had searched and which he had not. On his way out, however, something caught his eye.

Beside the door was a dresser complete with a mirror and a clock. Next to the clock stood a small piece of white folded card, which bore two words:

**Jacques Boucher**

That was strange.

Corvo picked up the card and turned it over in his hands, studying it carefully for any more text, held it up to the light to check whether it was embossed or not. This turned up nothing. It was simply a white piece of card with Jacques’ name on it. Corvo carefully returned it to the dresser, then left the room, propping the door open, then moved onto the next room which provided a similar result: four poster bed, white linen, wooden bookcase and dresser with the same white card. The name _Giovanni Ciotti_ stood proudly on the front.

This proved it. There was no way that they were here by accident. Whoever it was that had drugged them and left them lying in the ballroom clearly didn’t want them to leave, wanted something out of them, wanted them to stay and do what they were told. Further investigation of the bookcase at the side of the room showed that it was packed with literature relating to the Abbey of the Everyman, the history of the Overseers, and analyses of the Seven Strictures. Maybe one of the servants had taken issue with hosting a party for a group of Overseers. Maybe this was all propaganda. Corvo took a mental note of the contents of the bookcase, then moved on.

The next room he checked was locked. 

He was only about halfway down this wing of the corridor, yet he was already running into locked doors. He knelt down and looked through the keyhole, unsure of what he could expect, and focused carefully.

The curtains in the room were closed, but he could make out through the darkness a figure sitting, slouching almost sideways in an armchair. The figure wasn’t moving, but the slow rise and fall of their chest indicated to Corvo that whoever it was was alive. No problem there then. He took a moment, debating whether to jam a chair in front of the door so the person inside wouldn’t be able to leave until the others allowed him to, but then thought better of it and moved on. Judging by the clock, it was already nearly quarter-to the hour so he picked up his pace.

Next room. Bathroom. Contained a large, sunken pit with a mosaic floor, filled with water which would presumably act like a bathtub for whoever wanted to wash themselves. A smaller side-room contained a toilet and a sink embedded in a cabinet. The cabinet contained bottles of different types of medicine as well as bandages and other medical supplies. Could be useful later. The windows in this room weren’t barred like the windows in the bedrooms, but were frosted, thin and tall and stained into beautiful abstract patterns. The room was quite dim at the moment, indicating to Corvo that the windows probably faced west and in the evenings the bathroom would be flooded with colour. He took a few minutes to stand back and appreciate the beautiful intricacy of the room before deciding to move on.

He was heading out of the room and about to enter the next when the clock chimed eight from downstairs. The _clangs,_ drawn out and jarring as they were, were at least audible from any other spot in the house. It would be easier to organise themselves if they could accurately keep the time. He turned and headed for the stairs again, descended, then headed for the ballroom.

Inside, it felt cold.

The others were placed at different points around the room, some standing, smoking, some having drawn up chairs and staring into space. Jacques’ face was pale and drawn even as he puffed on his cigarette, and Theo sat with his head in his hands, resting his elbows heavily on his knees. Corvo didn’t need to ask; clearly, they had found nothing.

No way out.

Lucy turned to Corvo as he entered the room and shut the door behind him and tilted her head. “I don’t suppose you had any luck on the first floor?”

Corvo shook his head then drew up his own chair near the others and sat down on it, wringing his hands distractedly. “No. Worse. Most of the windows are barred and unless you want to fall to your death, we wouldn’t be able to leave via them anyway. There are bedrooms, they have our names on them, whoever it is that trapped us in here doesn’t want us to leave.”

“Shit,” Jacques said, taking a long draw on his cigarette, “There must be some way…”

“We found a door going out into the back,” said Giovanni, “It just leads into some kind of walled garden. I didn’t have time to properly investigate.”

“Alright, we’ll have a look at that later,” Corvo said, “I didn’t have time to search the first floor, and I’m fairly sure it has at least one extra level. Anyone found anything else?”

Bevis raised his hand, then spoke up, “There was some kind of cold food storage room. There was a window in there but it was very high up on the wall, and bolted shut. Perhaps we could find some way of getting out there.”

“Possibly…” Corvo said. They’d need something to remove the bolts from the window. It would be easy enough to drag a chair into the place and stand on it to get to the window, but following that, they’d need some kind of tool to remove them. Perhaps they could break the glass…?

There had to be some easier way. It couldn’t be possible to make a house this big almost watertight. They had to have made some mistake in planning this, however small, just something big enough to let them leave. But if they, whoever _they_ was, would go to such lengths to prevent them from leaving, would the place also be guarded too?

That was silly. The whole place was fenced in by a wall far too high to scale, with only one set of gates through which one could enter or exit. It would be too easy to hide _a lot_ of guards on the other side of that wall; but if they didn’t try…

Who knew what _they_ were planning in this place?

There was _one_ thing. His mark. His Outsider-given powers, the ones that he had gone to such lengths to hide. It would be possible to possess a rat or a mouse or some other small creature that would inevitably find its way into the manor, as small rodents were wont to do. He could crawl out through a crevice or hole and, with luck, find himself on the other side of the wall; but that didn’t explain how he would get the others out too. He couldn’t just leave them in here, especially not Garrett, and it still didn’t explain how they’d deal with whatever was guarding the other side of the wall.

He could try it later, if they found no other route of escape.

So what was next?

“I found a person,” Corvo said suddenly, breaking the silence. The others looked at him in confusion.

“You found what?”

“I found a person,” Corvo reiterated, “There is a person locked in a room on the first floor. I think they’re asleep or passed out, but there is a person in a chair, and they are alive.”

“In the Outsider’s name,” Jacques said, annoyed, “You could have told us earlier. Shouldn’t we try to get them out?”

“How could we _possibly_ get them out if we don’t have a key anyway?” Bevis asked, “We can’t do anything, just like we can’t get ourselves out of here without a key.”

Bevis was annoyed. Corvo could tell by the way he sat, by the way he hunched over his cane and rolled his eyes. He probably thought he was too good for this, that this was all simply a waste of his time and effort, but Corvo didn’t care. He didn’t have time to think about what Bevis thought, funding be damned.

So what had they covered?

It appeared to the group that there was no other way out. There was a garden out the back of the house that was enclosed in very tall walls - that needed investigating. There was a window in the cool room that would possibly lead outside, but it was bolted, so without tools it would be impossible to escape via that. There were more rooms on the upper floors that had not yet been searched, some of them were locked, and at least one of them contained a person. Garrett had either disappeared into the house or had escaped, and until he felt comfortable enough to show his face, they wouldn’t be seeing much of him at all.

It was a bad situation. Corvo sighed and pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

“How about a map?” Lucy asked helpfully, “I found a notepad and a pen in the kitchen.” She produced the two and placed them down on a table at the side of the room, “Does anyone want to map the place or shall we do it as we go along?”

“You sound far too happy,” Jacques said offhandedly, but then nodded, “Yes. I think that would be a good idea. Do we split up again, or shall we go as a group?”

“Group, maybe,” Corvo said, “We can cover rooms quicker and we’ll be less likely to miss something. We should check the garden first, we might find something promising there.”

There were nods and murmurs, and people rose to their feet. Bevis appeared to have found a cane wherever he had looked earlier, and shaking, he used it to support himself. Giovanni led the group back out the big set of double doors at the end of the room while Lucy took notes at the back, then turned right down the corridor, past the huge staircase, then continued on for a while. There was another right turn in the corridor, and after a while, they came to a small white door. It was aged. Flakes of paint were peeling off the bottom, and the handle which looked like it might once have been bronze was tarnished with green splotches where the metal had oxidised. The hinges scraped when the door swung open - Corvo noted that this door hadn’t been locked like the front door - leading into a garden.

It was, considering the age of the house, quite beautiful. A small stream ran from a grate underneath the house to the wall, where it snaked through between the stonework. Wildflowers blew in the fresh morning breeze, springing up between a wooden walkway that stretched from the door to a shed at one side of the garden and a well at the other. Lucy continued to scribble on her notepad, jotting down the placement of the notable objects in the garden, then followed the rest of them into it.

An apple tree sat by the stream near the end of the garden. Corvo followed the running water until he was underneath the tree, then observed, looked up into its branches. It was too short to use to reach the top of the wall. Theo drew up beside him and reached for one of the apples, a small, shrivelled affair, and plucked it from the branch, taking a bite. Corvo looked at him, watching as he wrinkled his face up, squeezing his eyes shut then swallowing painfully. He threw the rest of the apple into the long grass and made a face at Corvo.

“Crabapple?”

“Yep.”

Too sour to be eaten raw. It was possible that they could be cooked into something nicer, although cooking was hardly at the forefront of Corvo’s mind right now. He sincerely doubted that most of the people present were even able to cook; it was almost a given that Bevis in particular would have had servants wait on him all his life, and the same went for Giovanni. It was unlikely that anyone here knew how to bake an apple tartlet.

Apple tartlets. They were trapped in this house and he was busy thinking about _apple tartlets._ Corvo turned away from Theo and looked around at the others investigating the rest of the garden, then walked over towards the well, which Lucy was studying.

He sidled up beside her and joined her looking down the well. It was dry, there was no rope, no ladder, no other way of getting down, and the wooden frame above it was so old that the wood was splintering and, upon closer inspection, infested with woodworm beetles. The hand-crank appeared to have completely disintegrated. Lucy was pitched over the lip of the well, staring down into the darkness, looking for something. 

“Think there’s any way of getting down there?” Corvo asked, joining her in studying the contents of the well, resting on his elbows, “Do you suppose there’s anything down there anyway?”

Lucy took a moment and hummed. “I’m not sure. I can barely even see the bottom, and usually wells don’t _lead_ anywhere as such...” she trailed off, then turned to him, looking thoroughly defeated, “I don’t like this. If someone _has_ trapped us in here, then they must want something off us, right? They wouldn’t make it so easy as to escape by just… climbing down a well.”

Corvo chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment and continued to stare down into the well. The situation was poor and worsening with each passing hour, with every room searched, with every locked door and secret uncovered. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted, “I don’t like it either, but we have to keep searching.” He turned to her and put on the most reassuring smile he could muster, “Don’t worry. We’ll find something. Keep looking.”

She smiled a weak smile, and for a moment he was reminded of Emily. They were both similar in age and stature, maybe Lucy was slightly less rebellious than Emily was, but Corvo still felt strangely protective of her. Like he was retaining some piece of her while he was trapped in here and she was still trapped in stone. He smiled back at Lucy and then moved on.

Giovanni and Jacques were studying the shed in the corner of the garden. It was small, as sheds generally were, and looked only slightly better kept than the woodwork perched above the well. Windowless and squat, it sat in and among the long grass and wildflowers, looking every bit at home as the apple tree and the stream. The shed itself stood strong on a concrete foundation, but what struck Corvo as _off_ was the lock holding the door shut. It didn’t match up with the rest of the building. The lock was new and shiny and strong, while the shed was not.

“What do you think?” Jacques asked Corvo as he strolled up and joined them, “Bolt cutters or key?”

“I think we’d have more chance with a key,” Corvo mused as Giovanni looked at him with wide eyes, “They - whoever they are - would be stupid to give us bolt cutters.”

Jacques hummed and took a long drag on his cigarette, “What about the wood then? Do you think it’s old enough for us to pull down with our hands?”

“You’re more than welcome to try,” Corvo said in amusement, and watched with a smirk on his face as Jacques straightened his back, looked at Corvo, completely unsure of himself, and then took a kick at the wood. It didn’t even budge. Jacques brushed himself off and strolled off, pretending that he hadn’t just tried to kick the shed until it fell down.

Corvo shot Giovanni an amused smile, then went to talk with him too. “So what do you think’s in there?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Giovanni said, stumbling over his words, “I’m not sure I want to find out. Secrets are never a good thing in places like this.”

Places like this?

“What do you mean?” Corvo asked. The man seemed unsteady on his feet, which would be understandable considering his wife seemed to have gone missing without explanation, but when he looked over at Corvo he had a glassy look in his eyes. He was still pale. Probably still half-asleep. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

Corvo doubted the sincerity of Giovanni’s reassurance, but decided to let it slide anyway. There was no point poking and prodding now while he was still so unstable. “Well if you need someone to talk to then you know where I am.”

Giovanni shot Corvo a weak smile and then headed back towards the house. Bevis was sitting on a bench beneath a small pitched roof at the edge of the wall, studying the others, once again leaning heavily on his cane, and when Giovanni came to sit beside him, Bevis shuffled up, leaving a gap between them in terse silence. He may have been rich, but it seemed that all of his extensive wealth had failed to buy him any manners. Giovanni was, understandably, not in the best frame of mind. It wouldn’t have hurt Bevis simply to give him a smile or a nod.

The others appeared to have finished searching the garden, and many were collecting by the door back into the house. Lucy had stopped scribbling on the pad of paper. Corvo approached her slowly, studying the grass beneath his feet one last time as he went, then stopped and folded his arms as he reached the roof. “No luck?”

“No luck,” she confirmed, “No way out here.”

“What did we do to deserve this?” he asked, then walked past her and re-entered the house, leading the others to the first floor.

* * *

Garrett was hiding.

When searching the bedrooms on the first floor of the house, he had failed to find a room with his name on it like he had done with Corvo and the other guests. Whether that was a blessing or an annoyance, he wasn’t quite sure, but it did tell him something.

He hadn’t been expected.

But if he hadn’t been expected, then what was he doing here? He had woken up in a different spot to the one he’d been hiding in before, so _someone_ must have moved him. Someone must know that he was here. So why did he stick out as the one person without a named room?

In all honesty, if there had been a room with his name on, he’d have stayed far away from it anyway; it made it much easier for people to locate and subsequently kill him if they so desired, so he settled with finding another place to hide for now. He figured that, when the night came and everyone else was asleep, he could simply creep out and make a more substantial effort at escaping. He had miraculously been left with his lockpicks (although that could have been the result of a rushed search: who would check his gloves anyway?) so with some time and patience, he could probably pick his way out. If the gates at the front of the manor weren’t guarded like they had been at the party.

Instead, he had found a laundry cupboard. In circumstances like these, it seemed unlikely that anyone would be searching it to get fresh bedding, especially not on the first day. By the time anyone collected more sheets, he would be long gone.

The laundry cupboard was small and dark and warm. Shelves lined the walls around the edges of the room, but one, the shelf directly opposite the door, provided a gap between the shelf and the wall, small enough for him to curl up in. He took a couple of sheets, dragged them round behind the shelf, and arranged them into a nest. Then, he stacked more sheets on the shelves between him and the door so that anyone who happened to come in would be unlikely to spot him unless they were searching for something.

He felt naked without his bow. Without any method of defending himself. He locked the door from the inside, shrouding himself in the warm darkness, then wrapped the sheets around him and stared into the darkness, listening to the noises of the house. It sounded like a group of people were searching for something, but whether that was him was another question. There was something about people moving in the house without his being exactly sure of what they were doing that made him very anxious, and it was that which kept him awake. The sounds of pipes creaking and wind whistling through the house were one thing: he knew that they weren’t a threat, save for those moments when he was only half-asleep and they’d morph into something that sounded like a threat and he’d jolt awake, heart hammering. The sounds of _people…_ That was another thing entirely.

He wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea to try and get some sleep at a time like this, but it had been so long since he’d got any rest and he was so exhausted that he wasn’t even sure that he’d try to stay awake at this point.

Instead, he simply stared at the sheets in front of him. Waited. Watched. Listened. Decided to allow sleep to take him if it so wished.

Despite his terror, despite everything that had happened, he still felt himself drawn to Corvo.


	6. Day 0, Part 2: Let the Game Begin

Day 0, Part 2

* * *

It was midday by the time Corvo and the rest of the guests had finished mapping out the ground floor and cellar. Giovanni had been permitted to disappear for a couple of hours to try and find any traces of Giulia, his wife, in the manor. Theo had found a trapdoor in the corner of the kitchen that led down a short ladder to a wine cellar, which didn’t look too suspicious given the circumstances. It was dark and cold, yes, and the lights were flickering on and off in a way that made Corvo’s head ache, but it also contained racks of wine which wasn’t entirely unwelcome considering the circumstances.

Jacques picked up a bottle and turned it over in his hands, then made a surprised face. “Impressive. Looks old. Think they’ll mind if we keep this?”

Corvo rolled his eyes and finished searching behind the last rack. The search had yielded no viable means of escape, but he wasn’t entirely surprised at this point. He didn’t know whether he expected a secret lever or switch that he could flip and then miraculously have a new way out, but he felt slightly disappointed nonetheless. He looked over at the others and shook his head. Lucy finished her diagram of the cellar, then turned around and began to head up the ladder, swiftly followed by the others. 

It had been a long morning. They had only covered and made notes on details about the ground floor, and still had at least two to go. The more disturbing thing was that their most likely route of escaping would be on the ground floor; as Corvo had notes previously, the first floor was too high to jump from, unless they could find some way of descending safely.

The clock chimed eleven. Someone’s stomach growled.

“What about food?” Theo asked, “We can’t just stay here if there’s no food. Nothing in the kitchen, only wine in the cellar. If we don’t want to eat crabapples, we’ll starve.”

Corvo shrugged. “Maybe they left us something upstairs. We can search in an hour. I want to check something in the ballroom first.”

Theo tilted his head in confusion initially, but then nodded and turned. Collectively, they headed back towards the ballroom, trailing behind Corvo and Lucy as they discussed potential options for escape. 

When they arrived at the ballroom, they found it was locked. Corvo tried the handle at first, but found that, like the front door, it was jammed, like it had been barred shut from the behind. He pushed against the door, then turned to the others.

“What about the other doors?” Lucy asked, “There were two other doors leading in. Maybe this one just… broke or something.”

Jacques snorted. “I’m not sure a door can just break shut, but we should try anyway. What does your map say?”

Lucy studied the map and chewed on the inside of her lip pensively. “North then east.” She looked up the north corridor, the one that headed to the garden, then set off down it and turned right, not waiting for the others to follow her. Corvo looked at Jacques for a moment, then followed her, allowing her to lead them down a smaller corridor, one that looked more like a servant’s quarters than anything. They had checked nearly every door here. Two on the right side led back into the ballroom, and one on the far end entered a cleaning cupboard contained beneath a flight of stairs.

Unfortunately, it seemed those two doors were locked too. Corvo turned to the others in exasperation and sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair distractedly.

“How could these be locked? They were open a few hours ago.”

“Doors don’t just lock themselves,” Bevis said, taking a seat on the bottom step, seeming entirely unfazed by the situation, “Someone has to have done it.”

The others looked between themselves in confusion. They hadn’t been all that long, hadn’t strayed too far from the ballroom itself, frequently passing it in their search for an exit, and nobody had been seen fiddling with the doors. Corvo looked up suddenly, roused from his thoughts, then found the others had turned to look at Giovanni.

“You went to look for Giulia, didn’t you?” Jacques asked.

“I did. But if you’re implying I had something to do with the door then you’re mistaken.”

Bevis pressed the issue. “Are you sure? You didn’t even touch them? Because if you did, I think you should tell us.”

Giovanni looked around, his face red. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, he was beginning to sweat and his face had gone pale. “I… I came here to look for Giulia, but _then_ I left again. I left the doors exactly as I found them, and I only used the double doors at the front.”

Corvo hummed and stroked his chin with one hand. He needed a shave. “And you didn’t find her here?”

Giovanni shook his head fervently. “I wish. I still can’t find her.”

Bevis sighed and shook his head slowly. The others looked around, staring at each other in a pregnant silence. The only person who could possibly have locked it was Giovanni… Or…

Garrett.

What could he possibly have to do with it? Why was he here? Why would he be locking doors for no discernible reason? None of it made any sense, and what Corvo would give to have just one last talk with him. 

“There was that fella,” Bevis said, “The one in the cape. The one who left soon as the lights came on.”

Corvo went cold. There was something about hearing it spelled out by other people that solidified the idea that Garrett was _there_ , with them. He couldn’t have made a shadier entrance. A few feet away, he saw Giovanni sag a little in relief.

“You’re saying he could have locked the doors?” Lucy asked, “But why?”

“Why, indeed,” Bevis said, taking his time to climb to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so, grunting with the effort of getting himself off the step, “I think we should make it a priority to find our little friend who wants to stay hidden so badly.”

With that, he began to walk off back towards the main corridor, where they had come from when trying to get to the ballroom’s secondary doors. Lucy and Corvo exchanged glances, watching Bevis hobble slowly down the hallway, unsure of what to say. They heard a soft _snick_ from behind them and turned abruptly as Theo and Giovanni were passing, following Bevis, and looked at Jacques who was lighting up a cigarette.

“What do you think of him?” Corvo asked, keeping his voice low and jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards Bevis, who was none the wiser.

“Honestly,” Jacques said, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and watching the wisps of smoke float up towards the ceiling, “I don’t like the man; I don’t like men who grew up with a silver spoon in their mouths and everything given to them without trying. But you can’t deny that he has a point. It’s easy enough to blame the man who’s distraught looking for his wife, but we have to work out who our real enemy is here. Do you think he has anything to do with it?”

Corvo looked at Lucy, then back to Jacques and shook his head. “No.”

“What?” Jacques asked, surprised, “None of us have ever met this man before, and you’re more inclined to trust he’s safer to have in the house unchecked than Giovanni, a high-ranking ambassador? By the Void, did you see what he was wearing? Trustworthy men don’t dress like that.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Corvo found that Bevis, Theo and Giovanni had disappeared around the corner. He knew it would be a bad idea to reveal his history with Garrett, so he feigned ignorance. “Did you see how scared he looked?”

Jacques narrowed his eyes and took another drag from his cigarette. “Was it real fear, fear for his life? Was it fear that he was caught doing something unsavoury? Or was it fear that he’d face repercussions from us for whatever he’s been planning? Bevis has a good point, I think we should make it a priority to find him and ask him some questions.”

Corvo stood there in silence, unsure of what to think as Jacques raised his eyebrows and then brushed past him, following the others down the corridor, followed by Lucy who trotted along behind him. He felt slightly sick at the fact that suspicion had been cast on Garrett so quickly. He had hoped that the others had forgotten about him as much as Corvo wanted to forget, but he had not been so lucky. He scuffed his feet on the floor for a moment, and then followed the others down the corridor and up the stairs.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Garrett, and what he’d say if they did run into each other again. Had that actually been him, or was Corvo imagining it? Was it really the same man? And what were the chances of him running into an exact lookalike here in Dunwall? The thought of the scar running down the side of his face made Corvo cringe. What could possibly have happened to him for him to end up in such a state, and did it have anything to do with his presence at the party?

He became so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost forgot what he was supposed to be doing. When he came to the top of the stairs, broken abruptly from his thoughts, he looked around in confusion and found the others in the left wing of the building, gathered outside a door.

Jacques turned to Corvo, still finishing off his cigarette, and raised an eyebrow. “We’ve found your _person_ and they appear to be awake.”

Indeed, there was a frantic banging coming from the other side of the door, as if whoever inside was trying to break their way through the door. Corvo approached and found Lucy kneeling on the floor, staring through the keyhole.

“Is there a latch? On the other side, I mean,” Giovanni asked.

There was a voice coming from the other side of the door. It was muffled and obscured, but only just loud enough for Corvo to hear what was being said. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he felt he recognised the voice.

“No, no latch, just a keyhole and… Wait a minute.” There was a rummaging sound from the other side of the door, the sound of things being thrown across the room, followed by a small “Aha!” and then a click. Corvo concentrated carefully, trying to work out who the voice belonged to, where he had heard it before, but he was swiftly interrupted. A key scraped through the lock and turned, then the handle moved and the door swung open.

_“You!”_ Corvo exclaimed, “What are _you_ doing here?”

Kirin Jindosh stood in front of him, brushing himself off indignantly. “What do you mean what am _I_ doing here? How could I possibly know? Perhaps I should be asking you the same question!”

Corvo had zapped his brain two years ago while trying to work out how to stop Delilah’s coup and restore Emily to the throne, but he’d heard rumours that Jindosh was slowly getting better; not well enough to work on and develop the inventions he’d devoted his life to before, but still comparatively clever. He’d had to re-learn a lot of the technical knowledge he’d made use of before Corvo had got to him, and according to Alexandria, he was working steadily. The state appeared to have lost interest in him, so he’d spent the last two years holed up in his house, stewing. Corvo knew he should have gotten rid of him.

“I thought you were…”

“You fried my brain, yes, and it hurt _a lot_ ,” Jindosh said, “But you thought you got rid of me, right? Wrong. As soon as I recover I’ll… I’ll…”

“You’ll do what?” Corvo asked sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest and tapping his right foot on the floor, “You’ll do a coup? You’ll putsch me? You’re late to the party there, Jindosh. It seems someone else wants to have a go first so _get back in line.”_

Jindosh jumped at Corvo’s forceful tone and took a step back. He may have once been the greatest engineer in the Empire, but regardless of his wit and intelligence, Corvo’s brawn would easily win out in close-range combat. Corvo caught a glint of fear in Jindosh’s eyes, swiftly replaced by the classic arrogant aloofness that was so characteristic of him.

“What do you mean _someone else wants to have a go?”_ Despite the confidence he was trying to display, his voice sounded uncertain.

Corvo smirked. “Did you not wonder why you’d been locked up in a strange room, or are you in on this as well?”

Jindosh raised his head and then looked away and studied his fingernails. “Of _course_ I’m not in on this. If I were, then wouldn’t I be hidden away somewhere you can’t find me?”

The others looked at each other, wary. Jindosh had a point. After what had happened to him with Corvo, there was no way he’d willingly put himself in such a compromised position at the mercy of Corvo and his council. Jacques stepped forward and tipped his head to the side. “Do you remember being taken here?”

Jindosh paused, and then nodded. “I was told to come here. I was told that the owner of the house needed my services and wanted me to design a new security system for him. They instructed me to come straight up to the first floor room and start work right away, so I did.” Another pause. “I don’t remember a lot after that, however. I’m fairly sure I fell asleep at one point.”

Theo held back a chortle, silenced by a death stare from Bevis. Jacques scuffed the floor with his right foot, then continued grilling Jindosh. “And the house owner didn’t tell you anything about any of this?”

“If, by _‘any of this’,_ you mean being locked in a room, then no. I’m just as clueless as you are.”

Jacques sighed and then looked over at Corvo and shrugged. If Jindosh had been locked in here the whole time, then he couldn’t possibly be responsible for locking the ballroom doors, unless he _did_ have something to do with what they were dealing with and he was lying about everything. It would be foolish to trust someone like Jindosh, especially when he hadn’t been under anyone else’s supervision at all. He vowed not to let Jindosh out of his sight until he could be _absolutely certain_ that he had nothing to do with it.

Regardless, Jindosh seemed jumpy and nervous. He startled at small noises in the house and his eyes flickered here and there, as if searching for something. Corvo walked behind him with Jacques as they headed back for the ballroom, to re-test the doors. He wanted to keep the bastard in check, to test for odd reactions, to see how he behaved and responded to whatever they found on their way. Most of all, Corvo wanted to keep himself safe, and he didn’t trust Jindosh not to stab him in the back.

They reached the ballroom doors again. Grabbing Jindosh’s wrist with one hand, Corvo pushed through the others and tested the handle again.

Miraculously, the handle gave easily and the door swung open. Stunned, Corvo stopped for a moment and exchanged glances with the rest of the group before continuing on through the door and into the ballroom. 

Quite a lot had changed.

The tables lining the edge of the room had been removed and in their stead was a huge, long table that stood in the middle of the room. Some sort of raised platform or stand sat in the middle of the table, quite distinct from the rest of the surface, surrounded with platters of food, including sandwiches, pastries, bread rolls and cheeses. Ten chairs were tucked in neatly around the table.

“You didn’t…” Corvo began, turning to the rest of the group, “You didn’t hear anyone moving anything around in here, did you?”

Lucy shook her head. “We weren’t even gone all that long. Maybe half an hour at most. There’s no way anyone could have brought in a new table _and_ a set of chairs _and_ all this food while also avoiding detection. We would have heard.”

“That’s what I thought,” Corvo said, chewing on his words, “Objects don’t just move around by themselves.”

From the corner of his eye, Corvo saw Bevis hobble to the table and take a seat, groaning as he lowered himself onto the chair. Jacques followed him shortly, circling the table, inspecting it from every angle with a careful eye, as if something was about to jump out and bite him. Corvo simply watched him from near the door, until eventually, satisfied that all was well, he took a seat and plucked a sandwich from one of the platters on the table.

“What are you doing? It could be poisoned.” Lucy said, rushing over. Jacques merely brushed her off and continued eating.

“I’m hungry,” he said, matter-of-factly, “Our friends have had ample opportunity to kill us all by now, and if we don’t eat then we’ll die of starvation anyway. May as well make the most of it while we can.” He chewed thoughtfully and then raised his eyebrows. “These are pretty good.”

“We’re not going to die of starvation in a day,” Bevis said, but helped himself to a pot of tea and two slices of bread and butter regardless, “But you’re right. I’d say we’re not actually in all that much danger right now. I’m sure they’ll let us out in time.”

Lucy, Theo, Giovanni and Jindosh stood awkwardly for a moment, eyeing the other two for indications that they were eating poisoned food. Minutes passed.

“Can you stop staring at me like I’m some kind of freak show act?” Jacques said after a while, sitting back and looking at the others, “Come and eat something or fuck off, but don’t make me feel like I should be entertaining you.”

Lucy appeared to be satisfied that the food was safe, as did Theo. Jindosh pulled at Corvo’s hand, eager to go join them, so Corvo let go without any particular struggle. The whole situation was getting more and more confusing, but if Jindosh _did_ have something to do with it…

“You too, Corvo. Sit down, eat, and stop thinking for once in your life.”

Corvo wasn’t sure whether Jacques had been serious or not when he had said that, but he obeyed nonetheless, sat down at the table and helped himself to a slice of cake.

* * *

Corvo had now found three doors that were locked, aside from the front doors of the manor.

The garden shed had been locked when they investigated it in the morning. A door on the first floor down the right side of the corridor had been locked like the room that Jindosh had been trapped in, and something had been blocking Corvo’s view through the keyhole so he had no idea of what was going on inside. The third, as he now found, was a short door, right at the very top of the manor, presumably leading into the attic. There was no keyhole at all for this door. So how were they supposed to open it?

Corvo sat down on the top step and rubbed his palms into his eyes. After finishing lunch they had agreed to search the rest of the house and report back to the ballroom at the strike of six to discuss their findings and determine if there was any way out, but they had been unlucky. It seemed it would almost be impossible to find a viable exit at this point; they had searched the house from top to bottom to no result. They had tried and tried to open the front door, even going so far as to try to kick it down but to no avail.

They were well and truly stuck.

_So, what now?_ Corvo asked himself, concentrating on the musty smell and motes of dust in an effort to calm himself. Nothing had happened. They had been fed, but nothing else had _happened_ as such. He wasn’t sure what he had expected anyway. To have people jumping out of the walls? The front door to just randomly swing open?

Somewhere in the house he heard the clock begin to chime. He counted the _clangs_ under his breath, idly tapping his fingers on the stairs.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

He took one last look at the door and stood up slowly, bones creaking. He really was beginning to feel his age. He was weak and fatigued, and not as strong as he once was, although he was loathe to admit it.

He had to move. The others were waiting on him.

The house had at least three floors, not counting the attic or the wine cellar. Most of the second floor seemed to be taken up by some kind of gallery room ringed by a circular corridor and offshot, unnamed, guest rooms. The first floor contained the bedrooms that were labelled with the names of the people who had been trapped (with the exception of Garrett, Corvo noted, although there was also one room with a blank name card) as well as the bathroom and a huge library. Unlike the bookcases in the named bedrooms, the shelves in the library were stacked with more normal books, including history and fiction. Corvo was planning on paying the library a visit himself if he managed to get some time alone. Maybe that night.

When Corvo arrived in the ballroom, he found the others sat around the table as before, helping themselves to a fresh offering of food. It seemed that, after having lunch earlier, they had become accustomed to the idea of eating offerings from some unknown person or organisation, whoever it was that had prepared and laid out the food, and not worrying about poison. Jindosh, Corvo noted, was reluctant to eat, only taking from the platters what had already been tested by the others, which was understandable.

Drawing up a chair, Corvo sat down next to Lucy and helped himself to several slices of bread and a hunk of beef. Jacques had brought the wine he had collected from the cellar earlier, and he offered the bottle to Corvo as he sat down, who gratefully accepted and poured himself a glass.

“Found anything?” Corvo asked Lucy, who nodded and opened her notepad, showing Corvo the map of that house she’d been piecing together.

“No other entrances or exits. If we want to leave, we leave via the front door, so we have to work out how to get those open first.”

Corvo wasn’t sure if he had expected anything else, but he was disappointed all the same. “Shit. No trapdoors or secret passages or anything?”

“We found a vent in the kitchen that looks large enough to crawl through, if you’re small,” Theo said from the other side of the table, “But most of us are too large. Lucy might be small enough to get through it, so that might be worth a shot if you’re up to it.”

Lucy grimaced and took three potatoes from the centre of the table. “I don’t want to but I’ll give it a shot.”

Corvo continued to eat in silence.

“No doors, no secret passages, no way out,” Bevis said, “What next?”

“I suppose we wait,” Jacques said, shrugging, “I mean, we’ve not been trapped in here for no reason. Although it seems suspicious, we should be able to wait calmly for instruction and then take it from there.” There was a momentary exclamation of protest from some of the others, but Jacques continued to talk over them, drowning them out. “I’m _not_ saying we comply with their demands, not by any means. I’m just saying that circumstances might change.”

There was a temporary silence and then a slow, collective nod of agreement. It seemed to make sense to Corvo, anyway. People make mistakes easily. One slip-up on the part of the people who had them trapped, and they could make a break for it; all they needed to do was remain vigilant and choose their steps carefully. It was painfully obvious that they were at the complete mercy of whoever had trapped them in the manor house - they could just stop sending food out as a punishment for starters, so Jacques’ suggestion made sense. 

_Play along for now, and work it out after._

“And what about this ballroom?” Giovanni asked from the other end of the table, “Did they show themselves to put the food out?”

Lucy shook her head. “The room was locked for about an hour, but I didn’t hear anything from inside. I left to find Jacques and by the time I got back, they were unlocked again.

“We should find out exactly when the doors are locked and unlocked,” Corvo said, “That might--”

_“Might what?”_ said Bevis, voice raised. He was shaking slightly, his face red. “If we know when the ballroom locks and unlocks, what does that tell us? We’re still forgetting the number one problem in this house and we still haven’t addressed it.”

Who? _Garrett?_

“I’m not sure he’s--”

Bevis cut him off again. “Oh, so he’s not a problem now, is he? We’re running around trying to find an exit and we’re just allowing that greasy little scumbag to run around unchecked? I’m telling you, he _knows_ something. He might be hiding a key. He might be sneaking around with a knife, or a gun. He could be up to anything and we haven’t made any sort of effort to find him.”

Corvo’s heart clenched. The room fell into silence.

“And _you!”_ Bevis continued, pointing at Corvo, “You’ve been protecting him the whole way! You have something to do with him, don’t you? You’re _protecting_ him.”

Corvo felt the eyes of everyone else around the table staring at him. He looked down into his plate, suddenly not very hungry any more, bouncing his leg distractedly.

“Do you have anything to say, _Emperor?”_

Another moment of silence. It was far too telling for his liking.

“Go and search for him, then,” Corvo said, “I thought he’d have escaped by now, and we’ve searched the whole house, but by all means - be my guest.” He sat back, a sour expression on his face, and downed the rest of the wine in one, much to Jacques’ dismay. “I’m going to bed.”

The chair scraped against the floor as he stood up abruptly and marched towards the door, closing it behind him, leaving the ballroom in tense silence, and headed for the library.

* * *

Garrett had been sleeping on and off throughout the day. Once or twice, he had been awoken by the light of the outside corridor as someone swung the door open and stuck their head in, looking briefly for something, but invariably they left again within seconds.

Now, the house had gone quiet. He had heard the clanging of a clock somewhere in the house, ten chimes, which meant that with luck, Corvo and the others had left by now, or at least gone to bed. It was time to make his escape.

A headache pounded behind his eyes as he untangled himself from the nest of sheets and crept to the door. He hadn’t had anything to drink in too long now, but he would be able to find something as soon as he left. Opening the door a crack, he peeked through, studying the corridor for any indication that anyone was present, froze where he stood and listened hard. No footsteps. No voices. The lights were on, but judging by how they had turned on in the morning automatically, he decided it would be unlikely that he would find a light switch.

He crept out, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he could manage, then moved on to the first corner. It was possible that he would be able to search for a window through which he could leave, but looking around the edge of the wall, it seemed that the main door was at the other end, right in front of him.

All was silent. Good. He took the opportunity and crouched, trod as silently as he could on the carpeted floor, carefully checking round every corner, looking out for signs of other people. He was so close. He could practically taste the fresh air.

Seconds later and he was at the door, but when he tested the handle, he found that it was still locked. He had attempted to leave via the main door earlier that day, shortly before he had found the laundry room, but even that, he had not gained passage. He was stuck, and thus, so was Corvo.

They were trapped in the house together, and there was nothing Garrett could do about it.

He suppressed the sinking feeling in his stomach and tried the handle again. No dice. It wouldn’t budge, so he turned and looked around, hoping he wouldn’t have to try and pick the lock.

He didn’t have the chance. He could hear voices and approaching footsteps from in the ballroom, just a short distance behind him, so he dropped the idea of picking the lock now and looked around frantically. There was a door leading into what looked like a small room, but he couldn’t risk running into another locked door now, so he crouch-sprinted to the staircase and bolted up it, thankful for the carpeting that muffled his steps.

Whoever it was that had been advancing on him continued walking down the corridor, chatting lightly with each other, heading back towards the laundry room that he had been hiding in, and listening carefully for several more minutes, he heard a door creak open and then shut. He breathed a sigh of relief, then pulled up his mask and continued down the corridor, curious as to what was up here, hoping he would be able to find a drink of water, if not an exit.

His fingers itched.

He knew that, by now, he should know better than to go thieving in brightly-lit places, but the urge overtook him and he crept into an alcove down the right side of the corridor, listening intently for voices again. When he was satisfied, he emerged from his hiding spot and continued down the hall. The carpet muffled his footsteps to the point where he was able to safely pick up his pace, checking every individual keyhole, looking for an unoccupied room. Something else. Something bigger than the bedrooms that were lining the corridor.

Towards the end of the corridor, on the right-hand side, there was a door that looked different to the others. It was varnished wood rather than painted white, looked old but still sturdy, covered in decorative carvings of mice and flowers and vines. Looking through the keyhole, as he had the other rooms, he searched quickly for any sign that it was occupied - a light, some noise, voices.

Nothing. Inside, it looked like the lights were switched off.

Garrett found himself compelled by something inside him to continue and see what he could find. He opened the door slowly, preventing the hinges from creaking, and slipped through, shutting it behind him again.

Inside, indeed, it was dark. The place appeared to be deserted, so he stood there for a few minutes allowing his eyes to adjust to the new light level. Judging by the smell of the room, it was a library; old books always had a particular smell, and most sounds were muffled by their insulative properties. Garrett would be able to sneak around safely. It was very possible that there were some rare and expensive books in here, so he prepared to search every row and aisle of books available to him. _Then_ he could escape.

He worked his way back and forth, taking note of what kind of books were stacked on the shelves as well as the objects sitting at the ends of the rows, on ledges beneath windows and sitting on tables. Mostly, they were decorative: porcelain and silver ornaments, paperweights, pens. Garrett pocketed what he could and moved on. None of the books in particular grabbed his attention.

He was approaching the other end of the library when something stopped him. He had been so focused on the objects that had been surrounding him that he didn’t notice a warm glow spreading across the floor from behind a bookcase a few paces ahead. Listening very carefully, Garrett heard the occasional _flick_ of turning pages, a sigh, the shuffle of feet on the floor as whoever it was adjusted themselves for comfort.

Garrett narrowed his eyes and ducked behind a set of shelves, thinking. He knew he should leave now, but he was in his element. He could take a quick peek at whoever it was, as long as he was careful about it. They would never spot him; it was so dark.

Something in the back of his head screamed at him not to, to turn back and find a way out _now_ but he ignored it and pressed on. He had already come so far that it would be pointless to turn back and leave right now.

The person sitting in the chair coughed. It sounded like a man. Garrett continued, looping around the edge of the bookcase, and then looked carefully to his right through the darkness.

Corvo was sitting there, reading. Garrett watched intently.

He wasn’t sure what he should feel any more, so he treated Corvo as he would any other target, and crept on, ignoring him. Still, he felt like he was being stared at.

“Who’s there?” Corvo asked, his voice ringing out in the darkness. Garrett froze abruptly, still crouched at the knees, waiting. Eventually, he knew, Corvo would go back to reading - it was just a question of _when._

“Show yourself.”

Briefly, Garrett considered doing as he was told for once, but caught himself. Corvo was a _murderer._ For all Garrett knew, he could still be out looking for him, killing people for a living. He nearly whimpered, then forcefully stifled it.

“I can hear you. Come out and show yourself so we don’t have to have trouble.”

Garrett held his breath, then picked up his pace again and headed for the door, his heart in his mouth. There was a door on the other side of the room leading… somewhere else, somewhere away from Corvo, so Garrett decided to take his chances. He ducked through another row of bookshelves, sure that Corvo could hear his heart, pounding as loud as it was, then made a break for the door.

He knew he wasn’t going to make it. He was never going to make it.

The dull orange glow spilled across the carpet before Garrett could get to the door, and suddenly, Corvo was stood in front of him, towering above. Garrett cowered, then turned.

A large hand caught him round the wrist and then gripped on. Corvo lifted the lamp with his other hand, using it to see who had been tracking him, then his face dropped. Even in the darkness of the library, Garrett could see that Corvo had gone pale.

There were several moments of silence. Garrett held himself stiffly, ready to make his escape.

“I thought… I thought you were dead.” Corvo said, “I didn’t think it could possibly have been you. After all these years.”

Garrett twisted his arm free and took several steps back, cloaking himself, trying to mask his shaking frame, looking left and right for some escape route, but somehow unable to move.

“Do you remember me?” Corvo asked, his voice softening, “We met in the City, years ago, but… Garrett, what happened to your eye?”

Garrett could hear the concern in Corvo’s voice but reminded himself that Corvo had been a good actor, even back then. He shook his head frantically, tried to say something, anything, but couldn’t force anything louder than a squeak to come out. Corvo’s face saddened.

“Are you okay? What happened? Why are you here?”

Corvo took one step towards Garrett, who flinched violently. For a second, Garrett couldn’t stop the petrified terror crossing his face, but then regained control and took a step back.

But he wasn’t just scared, he was _angry. Furious._ He wanted to _make Corvo pay._

“I--” Garrett said.

Corvo watched him patiently, the lamp still raised so they could see each other’s faces. “You what, Garrett? Do you want to come closer?” Corvo stretched out the other arm, palm upwards in an indication that he wanted Garrett to take it. Garrett refused, took a step back, shaking his head, so Corvo retreated too, holding up both hands. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“No.” Garrett said, his voice cracking, watching Corvo’s face fall again, “No I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in _eight years.”_

Corvo looked at him with a pained expression. _Why_ was he looking at him like that? Like he regretted everything that had happened? Like he wanted to take Garrett back and look after him like that would make everything alright. His anger bubbled over and then exploded in a devastating rage.

“I’m so sorry Garrett, I--”

“What did you expect? Why did you _do_ that to me? Think you can fix all this just by saying ‘sorry’? Why can’t you just _fucking leave me alone?”_

Corvo wilted in pain.

“What, was your plan then, huh? _Huh?_ To _fuck_ me? To get me sweet then slaughter me? Cut my throat and bleed me like a _pig?”_

More silence. Corvo whimpered, but still Garrett continued, merciless. The fury and hatred spilled over, uncontrolled.

”You should have let me _rot_ in that cell. It would have at least been less humiliating than this. Why did you do that? _Why did you do that?”_

Garrett waited for an answer, but none came. Corvo looked like he’d just been slapped, his face a ghostly white, his eyes dark and _exhausted,_ , his entire body stiff as a board. The silence that followed was painful, excruciating, but Garrett didn’t care. He reigned in his fury just long enough to turn and storm out of the room, leaving Corvo alone in the darkness, with only the lamp to guide him.

* * *

Garrett had known that he’d let his voice get too loud and he’d compromised his position, but he’d panicked and lost control. He hurried away from the room and turned the corner just as some of the other doors in the hallway banged open and other guests began shouting to find out what had just happened. Garrett, needing to get away quickly, holed himself up in a spare office room, hid under a desk and hoped nobody would come looking for him.

He was lucky. Eventually, the rest of the house quieted down, the bedroom doors closed one-by-one, and at the strike of eleven, the lights shut off abruptly with a loud _bang._ It took Garrett a long time to settle his breathing and talk himself down from the uncontrollable rage he’d suffered while confronting Corvo. He felt exhausted, despite having slept all day. He needed to get out, and soon.

As soon as the buzz of the adrenaline from his confrontation with Corvo wore off, Garrett started thinking. Ruminating. Thinking back on it, it had seemed like a heavy-handed reaction to Corvo’s attempts at conversation, but his brain had been filled with so many things that he’d lost control. A knot of guilt settled in his stomach. He had thought about Corvo a lot over the last eight years, and he still wasn’t entirely convinced that he’d done the right thing in throwing him out. Or had he? Corvo had been so manipulative and deceitful, but he’d also done so much for Garrett. And he’d looked so _hurt…_

Should he have done that? Should he have talked to Corvo in that way, or should he simply have left, avoided temptation? 

It was undeniable however, that Garrett had, in some small part of his mind, wanted to meet Corvo again. There was no point in denying that and lying to himself.

The more he thought on it, the worse he felt and the more he became convinced that he had done the wrong thing, so he distracted himself. Redirected his attention to getting out.

He played with the lockpicks in his glove, feeling their reassuring stiffness beneath his fingertips, then hopped out from underneath the table, trying to ignore the ache in his back. As he’d grown older it had become more prominent, although he’d tried to convince himself that that was the product of several years sneaking around with his back bent, crouched to the floor. He stretched. Groaned and then stifled it abruptly. It was entirely likely that many of the guests were still awake.

Down the corridor. Back past the library and all the rooms with their painted white doors. All was silent.

One door, when he passed it, appeared to be muffling some kind of sound. Garrett stopped dead still where he was, waiting for footsteps or voices as he always did, and then approached the door, hands outstretched to the frame. He leant on it silently, then approached the keyhole and looked through it.

It was a bedroom, not a big bedroom, but a bedroom. A man sat on a double bed, directly in front of the door, his legs hanging off the edge, bent double, elbows on his knees, hands in his palms. His breath was hitching in broken, ragged cries, although he was trying desperately to keep it quiet.

It was Corvo. The lamp that he’d been carrying around in the library sat on a nearby desk, throwing dim orange light across the room, illuminating his face. He looked exhausted; dishevelled and thin and _old,_ like he’d seen too much. Like he’d been spent.

A fresh bolt of regret and guilt shot through him. He was the Master Thief, he didn’t _regret_ anything. But he did regret this. He wished he could take everything he’d said to Corvo back, although it had been stewing for far too long anyway. One half of him wanted to say sorry, to knock on his door now and try to make it better, but the other half held him back. _Was this really the wisest thing?_

He listened to the crying for several more seconds before it became too much for him. Garrett got up from next to the keyhole, propping himself up against the wall for a moment, crushing the knot of shame that had settled in his throat, then moved on.

He was going to get out of here, one way or another, and then he was going to take a ship to the next city, where he wouldn’t have to face painful memories like these. He was going to forget everything and get back to what he had grown up and lived doing. He was going to avoid conspiracies and politics and supernatural problems and…

He approached the front door. Unsheathed his lockpicks and prepared them, knelt before the door, then inserted them carefully, feeling around for the pins.

A bolt of _something_ flew up through his hands and into his arms. 

His muscles locked into place, his fingers squeezing _far too tightly_ around the picks, his teeth clenched. Pain surged through him. He tried to cry out, but his jaw was locked in place and wouldn’t allow him to open his mouth to scream. His muscles were about to snap.

Then, as suddenly as it started, Garrett managed to pry the lockpicks away from the keyhole. The pain didn’t stop, but abated slightly. He was flung back several feet onto the floor behind him, panting, splayed out, his muscles _aching_ and his headache suddenly intensified. He fought back the urge to vomit, curling up quietly into a foetal position, shaking, shivering, holding his hands behind his head, squeezing himself in tighter.

Was that supposed to happen?

It was a long time before he felt able to pick himself up off the ground. He was sweating profusely and felt dizzy and disorientated. The lockpicks were still in his hands, but were badly scorched and blackened from whatever was inside the lock, but regardless, he slid them back into his gloves.

In his dazed state, he wasn’t sure whether he had yelled or not. If he had, then he was in danger of being found here in the darkness of the manor, totally and utterly exposed. He fell to one knee, but continued down the corridor, down, down until he came to the corner at the end. It took far too long. Whatever had happened while he tried to lockpick his way out of the house had injured him quite badly. His muscles screamed in pain, protesting at his movement, begging him to stop and rest.

He swung the door to the laundry room open, crawled through using what little energy he had left, then crawled back into the nest of fresh sheets he had made himself earlier that day.

The pain was too much to allow him to sleep, so instead he stared into the darkness again.

There, he stayed for a very long time.


	7. Day 1, The Roving Feet: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Restrict roving feet that love to trespass. They pay no heed to the boundary stones of other men's fields. They wander into foreign lands, only to return with their soles blackened by iniquity. Where have you strayed that destruction now comes behind you? Would you walk across burning coals or broken glass? Then why do you prowl into the homes of the honest, or into the dens of hidden things, for the result is the same. You will fall into the Void! Instead, rest your feet on a firm foundation so that when the winds of the Outsider shriek against you, you will stand firm and not be overthrown."_

Day 1: The Roving Feet

Part 1

* * *

A loud _bang_ from outside of the room woke Corvo.

He gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs, his throat dry, clutching the sheets in balled-up fists. It was warm. _He_ was warm. Seemed he’d slept in his clothes again without realising it. His skin felt waxy from the night sweats, his throat raw from… Had he been crying?

_Oh._

He swung his feet out of bed, sitting on the edge for a second, then got up. Investigating the bang was his first priority here, and it would provide a welcome distraction from just how dirty he felt. It was already light in the room, the pale morning summer sun filtering through the bars on the windows creating a slatted effect, making the motes of dust suspended in the air twinkle and glitter.

When he swung open the bedroom door and stuck his head out to investigate, he found most of the other guests doing the same, with the notable exception of Bevis who was nowhere to be seen.

The lights in the corridor were on, and a low buzzing came from the fluorescent tubes above his head. Corvo remembered how, the day before, the lights had turned on abruptly just after six in the morning, nearly blinding them. At least today they had been protected from the worst of it. He turned to Jacques on his left side, who looked exhausted, sagging where he stood. He had wrapped himself in a white bathrobe - had clearly not slept in his clothes like Corvo had - his feet bare on the carpeted floor, playing with something in his pocket, turning it over and over between his fingers. Lucy stood at her door on his other side, and they exchanged glances for a moment. Shrugged.

Upon further observation, it seemed that there was no other threat; the bang that had woken Corvo had come from the lights in the house turning on all at once, so he turned and entered his room again, leaving the others in the corridor alone. He wondered if they had heard his interaction with Garrett the previous night, whether it had raised any suspicions or they had gone looking for him. Bevis was still suspicious, Corvo could tell. He could see it in the way he looked at him.

He considered getting back into bed, but thought better of it. He’d woken up several times throughout the night, but knew that even if he did get back under the covers he likely wouldn’t sleep, achieving nothing but getting more frustrated, so instead he undressed, found a white bathrobe and slippers which looked like the ones that Jacques had been wearing and put them on. Balling up the clothes and tucking them under his arm, he left his room again and headed for the scullery on the ground floor of the house.

It was a small room, and chilly, but quiet at least. A good place to be left alone with his thoughts. He ran a sink of hot, soapy water and soaked his clothing for a moment, staring absentmindedly into the corner of the room. It was strange how he’d gone from growing up in poverty, doing everything himself to Royal Protector, then Emperor. He’d been waited on hand and foot while living and working in the Palace; he hadn’t had to cook, clean, wash dishes or clothing. All domestic tasks were taken care of for him by servants. But here, that had all changed. Some of it had, anyway. Meals still appeared in the ballroom, brought to them by some unknown person, but the laundry was his to do.

He picked up the washboard and began rubbing his clothing into it, watching the suds slide lazily down and back into the water. It was calming. He hadn’t had time to look after himself while working in the Palace, had been too busy with paperwork and the Court and, in the earlier days, protecting Jessamine. The repetitive motions cleared his head. Gave him space to think and get away from it all. Made everything feel _normal._

He thought about Garrett. He knew, deep down, that he shouldn’t have expected any other reaction, but it had been _eight years._ He hadn’t expected Garrett to hold onto a grudge for that long, thought he would be too busy surviving, but maybe he had hurt him in a more visceral way, deep down.

The situation had been handled poorly by Corvo, he knew that. It was clear, looking at it from Garrett’s perspective, that he had come off as manipulative and deceitful. Shame welled up from his stomach, and in response, Corvo rubbed the clothes harder against the washboard, trying to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. In all the surprise of the situation, he hadn’t had chance to ask Garrett what he was doing here. Maybe it was for the best.

The clothes seemed clean enough now. Corvo emptied the sink of soapy water, refilled it with fresh water, then rinsed his clothing. He still didn’t know what he was doing here. Although Bevis had a point, that Garrett was acting particularly suspiciously, Corvo _knew_ deep down that he wasn’t responsible for this. The man had probably already found a way out and left, Corvo knew he might never see him again but…

But he needed to stop thinking about him. He needed to let him go.

Corvo, satisfied that the clothes had been adequately rinsed, wrung them out and placed them in one of the wicker baskets beneath the sink. Draining the sink, he picked it up, readjusted his bathrobe, and headed back for his room.

Something felt off.

He stopped. Listened intently. The door to the scullery swung shut behind him, leaving him in something almost like silence. Occasional footsteps sounded from above him, the others getting ready for the day, but something else was _wrong._

He held his breath. Maybe he was overthinking things. 

Several moments of silence. He wasn’t convinced that nothing was wrong, but he knew he was probably getting jumpy. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had enough sleep last night. He hitched the wicker basket up underneath his arm and then continued.

The startlingly loud _bang_ of a door and a yell made him jump and drop the basket. Corvo backed up, ready to sprint in the opposite direction, but stopped himself just in time. His freshly-washed clothing lay sprawled on the floor, but there was no annoyance.

In front of him, Suleiman was picking himself up off the ground, breathing heavily, brushing himself off and adjusting his glasses. The black, frizzy hair stuck up in all directions, his jacket as patchy as ever, a confused expression on his face. He turned to Corvo and stared, but after a second or two, his face broke into a smile and he jumped to his feet.

“My dear man… Corvo!” He said, his speech slightly confused, “What are you doing here… I mean, where are we?” He ran his eyes up and down Corvo for a moment, “What are you wearing?”

Suddenly, Corvo felt very self conscious. He pulled the bathrobe closer to his body in an effort to conceal himself better, but knew no amount of pulling would successfully cover his knees; it was simply too short. Glancing around, he avoided eye contact with Suleiman, then decided picking up his clothes would be a better bet. “I needed to wash my clothes,” he mumbled, “And I don’t know what I’m doing here.” He finished gathering his clothes then rose again, feeling bolder this time. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Suleiman shrugged. “Last I remember, I was still in that cell, next I was locked up in that room.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, into the cleaning cupboard he had just burst out of, “Very strange.”

“Yes…” Corvo agreed, “Strange. Listen, Suleiman, we’ve been trapped since yesterday morning and we can’t find a way out. If you can remember anything else, it’s important you tell me. I’m not sure who’s responsible and I’m trying to piece it together.”

“But of course,” Suleiman said, nodding, “And what next?”

“Next, I’m not sure. I think you should meet the others, then we’ll keep searching for an exit. There has to be some way out of here, it can’t be that easy to lock up a house full of people and prevent them from escaping. We _just_ have to keep looking.”  
Suleiman nodded in response, then looked around him, still taking in his surroundings after his surprise entrance. Corvo tapped him on the arm to get his attention, then hitching the wicker basket full of clothes up they continued down the corridor back towards the ballroom.

“Listen, I never got the chance to apologise for those Overseers and your room. I told them explicitly not to enter and they massively overstepped their boundaries in pulling that. As soon as we get out of this place I’m going to be putting them on trial for treason - they knew that by removing you, they’d be stopping you from bringing Emily back--”

Suleiman waved a hand. “It’s not your fault. You can’t control the actions of others. If you did, you’d be a lot scarier than you are now and I’d say we had a greater concern on our hands,” he smiled wryly, but then his expression darkened, “I think we’ll be lucky to get out of here, though.”

Corvo cocked his head and frowned. “Why?”

“You’ve already said it. Someone who goes to the trouble of imprisoning several people in a house won’t make idle mistakes. You also forget that if they want to imprison the Emperor, they probably have nothing to lose.”

Although Corvo was loathe to admit it, it was true, and not something he had considered before. _That_ worried him a lot more than the former point.

“I…” Corvo began, but then stopped dead in his tracks, staring. 

Something had changed. Whether it had been there when Corvo first descended the stairs to get to the scullery or that he hadn’t noticed it was up for question, but there it was. In the alcove beneath the grand staircase, where there had been an empty patch of floor before, stood a Clockwork Soldier. It towered above the two of them, its blades shining in the light, the beak-like structure to the face slightly scuffed.

Corvo felt the colour drain from his face. Leaving Suleiman confused in the corridor, he hurried over to investigate. The thing looked like it was deactivated; there were no lights, no sounds, no movements that would indicate that it was still in action, but he had a bad feeling about its presence, and about the scuff marks on its beak. He drew closer, ready to jump back (an aftereffect of his fight with them back in Jindosh’s Clockwork Mansion), then circled around to the back of the robot and checked the serial number on the back, just above the heel.

That confirmed it. Back when he had been coronated, he had been asked to choose a Royal Protector, and in all his fury at being forced to take up the position of Emperor, he had spitefully chosen a broken Clockwork Soldier. Alexandria had promised him that it was permanently broken, that the only man who could fix it was Kirin Jindosh, and he was still too mentally damaged to repair it even if he wanted to, so Corvo hadn’t considered it all that much of a risk. Well, it wasn’t a physical risk. Whether it was a political risk or not was another question.

Suleiman approached from the front of the Soldier, looking concerned. “What… What is it?”

There was no response at first. Corvo was entirely wrapped up in his own head, his thoughts racing. Why would this Clockwork Soldier be here of all places? Was it a taunt? A joke? A genuine threat? Had Jindosh himself recovered more than it was rumoured and began orchestrating plans to overthrow him as he had before? Did he know more than he was letting on?

“I need to talk to Jindosh.” Corvo said, walking past Suleiman and heading up the stairs, “Would you please watch the automaton? If it moves, call me down.”

Suleiman nodded, unsure, his hands clasped together, then turned his head to the Clockwork Soldier, watching intently. Corvo took one last glance at Suleiman and took the stairs two at a time, heading for the room that contained Kirin Jindosh.

Three loud, insistent knocks on the door. “Jindosh, we need to talk.”

There was no response. Jacques, once again, poked his head out of his bedroom’s door, cigarette in hand.

Knocking turned to banging as Corvo grew angrier and more worried. Three bangs, then four, then five, then more and more. “I’ll break this door down if you don’t come out.”

“By the Outsider’s name, man,” Jacques said, marching up to him, “What’s the matter?”

Corvo turned, wound up, breathing heavily, “I need to speak to Jindosh. It’s urgent. I think he knows something about this house, but he’s not letting on. There’s a Clockwork down on the ground floor, this _doesn’t just happen by chance._ He has something to do with it.” Corvo turned to the door again without a pause and continued pounding, “Open up you greasy little shitbag, you have one last chance.”

“Move,” Jacques said, pushing Corvo out the way, as other heads appeared at the bedroom doors, some sleepier than others. He tried the handle but it resisted, halting halfway down, clearly locked. _“Move,”_ he said again, taking one step back.

Corvo did as he was told, backed down the corridor as Jacques appeared to count down from three, then _kicked_ at the door near the handle. The door seemed to jolt for a fraction of a second, but then returned to its initial position, so Jacques tried again. He threw all his force into a room-shaking blow which he landed with precision, and the door responded with a loud _crack._

One more time.

Jacques backed up yet again, panting. Braced himself. Shifted his weight to his back foot.

“Is everything alright?” 

A familiar voice came from the far end of the corridor. Corvo and Jacques turned in unison, searching for the voice, and found it just outside the bathroom. Jindosh was standing there, cloaked in a standard-issue bathrobe, holding a toothbrush in one hand and a damp towel in the other. “What’s going on? Why are you trying to kick my door down?”

Jacques gritted his teeth, shot a filthy stare at Corvo and walked back off to his room again, slamming the door. There was a moment of silence as Corvo watched Jacques’ door, then turned to Jindosh, bristling.

_“Why_ are one of your automatons here, in this house, _with us_ , on the ground floor?”

Jindosh paled, his face went slack and he dropped his towel. “What do you mean?”

Corvo folded his arms across his chest. “I mean what I said. There is a _Jindosh Clockwork_ on the ground floor of this manor, and I want to know how, why and when it got here.”

There was a moment of silence as Jindosh appeared to process what Corvo was saying, clearly struggling with something in his head. “I can assure you, Corvo, that I had nothing to do with this. Surely if anything were amiss with my creations then I would know. I haven’t authorised their sale in years, and surely-” he looked Corvo up and down disapprovingly, “Surely you destroyed the last of them?”

“Apparently not,” Corvo said, “Come with me. You’ll take a look at it, and then you can explain to me what it’s doing here. Maybe that’ll _jog your memory.”_

Jindosh went pale again, and then red. He picked the towel back up off the floor, brushed it off, and stared hard at Corvo. “I had nothing to do with this and I will not be forced to do _anything_ for you. Get one of your other thugs to work it out,” he walked towards the bedroom and opened the door, then paused, “You’ve cracked my door!”

Bevis spoke up from where he had been standing, arms folded across his chest, leaning against his door frame. “Corvo, Mr. Jindosh is a distinguished and brilliant man. Give him some respect. Let him come in his own time.”

Corvo did a double-take and stared at Bevis. “What, suddenly it’s not _critically important_ to find out who locked us up in here and why now? And - don’t tell me - you’re asking me to forget all this because he’s given you plenty of free technology to increase the profits on your whale oil company, am I right? So you can try and influence the Council to let him be?”

Bevis looked ruffled. He scowled at Corvo, his left eye twitching in rage, and when he spoke, his voice was low and bitter. “I have done no such thing. How _dare_ you?”

He didn’t give Corvo an opportunity to shoot anything back at him, but instead slammed the door, leaving the bang ringing in his ears. Lucy emerged from her room and broke Corvo and Jindosh’s line of sight by standing in-between them, allowing them a moment to cool off and de-escalate. She turned to Corvo and shook her head. “Go downstairs and sit down, Corvo. Get something to drink - no, not whiskey - you look awful. Jindosh,” she turned and addressed him, “I’m as curious as anyone and I’m sure you’re not involved in this. Would you mind getting dressed and inspecting the Clockwork for us? It might give us more information on who’s involved in this scheme if you can remember anything about serial numbers.”

Jindosh glared at Corvo one last time, then fixed his hair, slicking one hand over the top of his head, removing the stray lock that had fallen into his eye during the argument. He collected himself, then forced himself to smile at Lucy and nodded. “Despite all this, I will. I don’t appreciate being accused of such crimes, but I understand it is important and might give us a clue.” He nodded once more, seemingly satisfied with himself, then turned and entered his room, swinging the door quietly shut behind him.

The corridor was tense. Lucy looked at Corvo, clearly suppressing a scowl, then slowly talked herself down, shook her head wanly. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and wait for Jindosh. You can show me the Clockwork and I can get you some tea.”

Corvo waited, then slowly nodded his head in reluctant agreement. He hung the freshly laundered clothes up in the room to dry, then returned, followed her down the hallway and the stairs. The ballroom was unlocked again, and on the table in the middle sat several platters of toast, cheese, eggs and ham, as well as many pots of tea. He watched Lucy as she picked up one of the pots, poured the tea into a china cup, and brought the cup to Corvo, as well as a small bowl of sugar and a milk jug. He was sitting at the end of the table closest to the double doors, looking out into the hallway, lost in his thoughts. The combination of his argument with Garrett the night before, Suleiman’s appearance and the Clockwork Soldier had unsettled and confused him. He heard her place the cup, the bowl and the jug on the table, and then a _scrape_ as she drew a chair up next to him, settling down.

There was a silence as Corvo tried to work out what to say. Was there even any point, or was it best just to drop it? He decided on the former and played with the ring on his right hand as he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Corvo said, “I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”

Lucy shuffled in her seat and lounged facing the double doors at the end of the ballroom. “I understand why you did it; this isn’t a good position, we have a lot of things to figure out, and we need to start thinking about why this happened to give us the best opportunity at escaping.” She returned Corvo’s weak smile as he turned to her. “But we need to stick together and stay calm. The more divided we are, the less control we have over the situation. Try to stay cool with Jindosh and Bevis, and we’ll be out of here in no time.”

Corvo stared at the floor and shrugged, then turned to the china cup full of tea behind him and stared at it in his hands. “Do you think we need to worry about poison?”

Although he was used to giving out commands and orders and answering questions, it felt comforting to Corvo to have someone else back up his thoughts and tell _him_ what to do for once. He looked at Lucy for validation, yet somehow still feeling strangely protective of her.

“Honestly?” she began, “I don’t think so. They would have poisoned us long ago if they wanted to go down that route. I think we’re fairly safe.”

Corvo’s hands were shaking, making the cup rattle in the saucer. Although he wasn’t _nervous,_ a more accurate word would be _unsettled._ He still felt ill from the day before, he had slept poorly, and the last twenty-four hours had been an emotional rollercoaster. He looked over at Lucy and smiled again. “Imagine if they ended the Kaldwin Dynasty by poisoning me. I always expected I’d go out via assassination or public decapitation,” he snorted, “I’m the only person who’ll be able to get Emily back. I have to get out, for her, and I have to save Suleiman.”

“Suleiman?” Lucy asked. A head peaked around the ballroom door in response.

“You called?”

Corvo sipped at his cup of tea and gestured. “Suleiman, this is Lucy Solares. Lucy, this is Suleiman - what was your second name again?”

Suleiman bobbed his head in a half-bow and looked to Lucy. “Coppermind.”

“Well, this is Suleiman Coppermind. He was working on bringing Emily back. He turned up in here this morning.”

Lucy rose to her feet and held out her right hand. “It’s nice to meet you, although I wish we had met under more fortunate circumstances.”

The Clockwork Soldier. Corvo had asked Suleiman to keep an eye on it while he confronted Jindosh. “Any news? Did it move?”

Suleiman shook his head. “No, it has not. Whether that’s a good thing or not is up for debate. Are you sure it’s not just a statue?”

The chair Corvo had been sat on scraped back as he stood up, placing the half-empty teacup back down on the table with a rattle, then led the other two to the large double-doors at the entrance to the ballroom and through to the alcove containing the Clockwork Soldier. It stood there, towering above the three of them, its scuffed, beaky nose shining dully in the light from the laps up above.

“I’m positive,” Corvo said, once again walking to the back of the Soldier and showing them both the serial number on the back of its ankle. “I know this automaton. I assigned it as my Royal Protector, but it was deactivated or broken. This isn’t a coincidence, this is a deliberate taunt.”

Lucy looked concerned. She recognised the Clockwork Soldier too, had seen it stood behind the throne Corvo so seldom sat on, intimidating those who dared to exist in its presence. “Should we try to dismantle it?”

Jindosh appeared at the top of the stairs, descending them while fixing his hastily-donned necktie. “Don’t,” he said, rushing to meet them, “If it _is_ powered then it’ll kill you.”

Corvo looked unimpressed. He crossed his arms and leant against the wall, scowling at the panting Jindosh. “And when did you care about anyone other than yourself?”

Jindosh threw Corvo a dirty look in return and raised his nose. “At least I’m smart enough to realise that my chance of leaving this place are much higher if I don’t let you accidentally kill yourself.” He hurried past the others and shooed them away from the Clockwork, “Don’t go near this, and don’t touch things you don’t understand. Is that clear?”

“I just want answers,” Corvo said, “Do you recognise the serial number? Are there any working devices - a camera or an audio recording - that will tell us about how it got here? Is there a way to dismantle it?”

Humming, Jindosh ignored Corvo’s questions and walked around the Clockwork with his arms folded across his chest, one hand stroking his chin, observing it, keeping his distance. He walked several laps around the Clockwork, humming and murmuring to himself, often looking like he was trying to remember something but failing, then becoming frustrated. Eventually, he turned to Corvo, Lucy and Suleiman and addressed them. “I can’t remember anything about the serial numbers, ergo I cannot tell you where it comes from or who it was sold to. As for working devices, there may be, but if it’s been off all this time, they won’t have recorded anything; they are inactive if the Clockwork is. As for dismantling the machine,” he looked up at it, towering above his head with a strange expression, something that looked like wistfulness, “we _could_ demagnetise the magnets holding the arms and legs on, but…” he drew out his words, looking like he was searching his mind, his memories.

“But…?”

“I… I can’t remember,” he said, “I’m sure I’ll remember soon. But machines like _these…_ why would you want to destroy them?”

There was a very long silence. Corvo turned to Lucy, rolled his eyes, then sighed. “I’ve _already_ told you, Jindosh, I--” he cut himself off abruptly, reminding himself that Jindosh was still recovering from the incident in the Clockwork Mansion, “You know what? Forget it. I’ll work it out. You may leave now.”

Jindosh stood there for a moment, still stroking his chin, appearing not to have heard what Corvo said. After a while, and a couple of strange looks from the others, he simply shrugged, mumbled something, then wandered off towards the ballroom. His footsteps sounded uneven and unsure as he shuffled away, leaving Corvo with a ball of frustration rising up from his chest yet again. Once he was sure Jindosh was well out of earshot, he turned to Lucy and Suleiman and lowered his voice.

“We’re going to have to find some other way of dismantling this thing.”

Suleiman nodded from across him, then finally spoke up. He seemed to have a preference for staying quiet in group situations, maybe preferring to ensure that whatever he was about to say was correct before speaking. “Heat,” he began, “pressure, force. You can heat a magnet to eradicate its magnetic properties, or you can apply pressure or force. Hammer it, if you will.”

Corvo and Lucy looked at each other, nonplussed.

“Most metals require intense heat to demagnetise. We _could_ throw this thing in a fire, but that seems unsafe, so that’s out of our reach, leaving only force. If you drop a magnet, it’ll lose some of its magnetism. That’s the only way I can think of, considering we don’t have any electrical kit with us.”

“You’re saying,” Corvo said, “that we can _hit_ the magnets until they just… stop working?”

“Yes,” Suleiman said quietly.

“Meaning we could just beat this thing up until it falls apart?”

“It sounds silly when you put it like that,” Lucy said, “Have you considered explosives?”

Corvo suppressed a dry laugh. “The answer to all of life’s problems. Yes, with all these explosive weapons I just _happen_ to keep on my person? If I had explosive bullets or grenades I’d have broken the front door down as soon as I realised I’d been locked in here.”

Lucy turned red and smiled shyly. “Suleiman, do you know anything about chemistry?”

“No,” he said, “But what did you want to say?”

“Are there any common kitchen or bathroom chemicals that can be mixed and used to create an explosion?”

“I wouldn’t” Suleiman said, “If you get something wrong you could seriously hurt yourself or create a toxic gas, which will kill everything _except_ the Clockwork. None of us know enough about chemicals to know what to mix without creating something that will kill us before the automaton. There must be a better way.”

There was a very long pause as Lucy fell silent, inspecting the Clockwork Soldier. “Right. I’m fresh out of ideas.”

Silently, Corvo eyed the four bladed arms on the Clockwork Soldier. A weapon. A very big weapon. Something he could realistically use to ensure his safe passage from the manor and back to the Palace. All he had to do was work out how to demagnetise it. “Is there a workshop somewhere in this place? Anywhere that might have tools?”

Lucy took out her map and studied it for a bit, thinking. “There’s no workshop, but there might be tools in the kitchen or the scullery.”

Thinking back, Corvo hadn’t found anything that would be useful in the scullery, and when he checked the kitchen, he had come up with the same thing. The kitchen was actually nearly empty, which in Corvo’s opinion might actually have been a good thing. When food arrived in the ballroom at set times, they also came with fresh cutlery which Corvo had not considered taking and using. He took a moment to walk over to the ballroom again and poked his head around the door. Jindosh was sat by himself nursing a cup of coffee, and a couple of others had filtered in as well while he, Lucy and Suleiman had been investigating the Clockwork. Indeed, the table had been laid.

Butter knives.

He couldn’t fight a Clockwork off with a butter knife, but if he needed an ad-hoc screwdriver or other tool, it would be useful to have on hand. Ignoring Jindosh, he strolled into the ballroom, picked up the nearest knife, slid it up his sleeve to a suspicious look from the other people in the room, then left again. He shrugged at Lucy and Suleiman as he passed them, then headed up for his bedroom and tucked it behind the dresser against the wall in the corner of the room.

* * *

Garrett had been dreaming about food and water all night. He slept fitfully, woke frequently, and when he did, he had always been about to dig in to some fantom meal brought to him by a stranger. His head pounded from the dehydration, pulled in beneath his arms, holding back pained groans lest it compromise his position. Despite all the rest and time he had put between himself and the electrified lock he had tried to pick the night before, his muscles still ached from where they had locked and spasmed uncontrollably, and stretching seemed only to make it worse.

Regardless, he knew he had to move _now,_ or the dehydration would kill him before anyone else in the house would.

Sighing, he crawled out from the nest of bed sheets he had put together the previous day, stopping for a moment to allow his head to stop pounding. He hadn’t had much chance to explore this place - he had been too busy hiding from strangers who had the potential to be very unfriendly - but he reasoned that, if anywhere, water would be in the kitchen. Despite the dehydration, he needed to pee something fierce too.

The silence was pierced, firstly by the distant murmurs and mumbles of people, mostly men, in the ballroom talking among themselves, and also by the low growl of his stomach. Taking every precaution to keep the noise down, he clutched his belly, willing it to quiet down, then crept onwards to the end of the corridor. He peeked around the corner; nobody there although he did notice what looked like a hulking, bird-like statue beneath the stairs. He hurried on, very firmly keeping his distance between himself and the statue, and headed for the kitchen.

The smell of fresh bread, teas, cured meats and pastries had him salivating like a wild starved dog. Briefly he stopped, considered whether the food was safe to eat or not, then decided against thinking about it, instead choosing to work his way through the corridors and into the kitchen.

As soon as he arrived, he bolted the door behind him, turned on the tap and let it run for several minutes while he found a nearby chair and pushed it underneath the handle. Unlike earlier, the kitchen was now empty, devoid of utensils, pots, pans or crockery, but it concerned him none; he wouldn’t have needed it anyway. If anything, it was a good thing: it meant there would be fewer weapons for the others to threaten him with. He stared at the running tap from the opposite wall, then lost control.

Not bothering to collect a mug or a glass or any other sort of vessel to hold the water with, he pulled his hood down and leaned into the basin, shoving his head beneath the tap and drinking directly from the water stream. It wasn’t _dignified_ or clean, water sprayed off the side of his face and bounced out of the basin where it dripped onto the floor leaving a puddle beneath his feet, but he didn’t care. His need was so great and his mouth was so dry and his head _pounded_ like a thousand temple bells, but new, fresh life flowed into him with the cool, sweet water. He drank until his stomach was full, then cupped his hands into a makeshift bowl and sloshed the water over his face and into his hair, rubbing it in, then finally turned off the tap and sat back down on the floor, finally satisfied.

Everything felt _good._ Everything felt like it was going to be fine. The headache hadn’t gone, but the pulsing, sick feeling was already beginning to dissipate, leaving him sighing in relief. He resisted the urge to lie back on the flagstone floor and fall asleep, preferring to stay alert for any unwelcome visitors to the kitchen, so he forced himself awake, wrenched his eyes open, rocked happily for a moment, then stood up. Stretched.

His stomach had been filled temporarily by the water, but he knew it would soon be empty again and louder than ever. The kitchen, surprisingly, contained no food and searching the cabinets yielded little other than a few tea towels which he used to dry his face, so he sat on a counter, staring at the barricaded door and thought for a long time. How was he supposed to get food in this house? How could he guarantee the safety of it?

It was possible that it was one big conspiracy to trap him here, that everyone else was waiting for him to poison himself. It was possible that they had laid out the food and they wanted him to take some and stop his string of successful heists, but something told him that this was much bigger than that. His mind raced with ideas and anxieties. He wanted access to the ballroom, but didn’t want anyone to know he was there.

A thought struck him.

When he had been spying on the large party two days previously, there had been a ledge around the walls of the room, up towards the ceiling; a ledge _just_ large enough for him to edge his way around, if he took care to stay safe and quiet. If he stuck to the corners of the room, he knew the shadows would _just about_ be dark enough to conceal him. 

The smell of food from the ballroom wafted in from under the kitchen door and Garrett’s stomach growled again. One way or another, he was going to have to find something to eat and in addition, if he didn’t make a move soon and leave the kitchen, he would be discovered.

Feet light on the flagstone, he cleaned up the rest of the water that had splashed onto the ground with the tea towel and shoved it down the back of one of the sinks so it wouldn’t be discovered. Then he shuffled the chair out from underneath the door handle, lifted it with a grunt so the legs wouldn’t scrape on the floor, and deposited it by the wall where he had initially picked it up.

Logically, if there was an easy way up to the ledge, it would be on the first floor. Garrett shut the kitchen door behind him, thinking of how to get up to the first floor without being caught. It seemed, judging by the noises they made during the day, that the grand staircase outside the ballroom was the one primarily used by the other guests to make their way up and down the stairs. He distinctly remembered that there was another, much less beautiful set of stairs beside the cleaning cupboard that he had hidden in before all this had happened. Maybe it was a set of stairs for servants or butlers or some other staff members, but either way, it was much quieter than the grand staircase.

Making a beeline for the secondary staircase, Garrett pressed himself to the walls, listened carefully to the conversations going on in the ballroom, then continued, maintaining his silence. It seemed like many more people had joined the occupants of the ballroom leading to a relative cacophony of voices compared with his creeping footsteps, so he began to favour speed over silence. 

The staircase itself creaked and groaned beneath his weight, and when Garrett reached the top he found himself in a small ‘back-corridor’. Like the staircase, it was sparsely decorated. A dirty carpet covered the floor; upon closer inspection it appeared that it was originally cream or white, but years of dust and dirt had turned it dark grey, the initial colour almost unrecognisable. A door immediately to the left led out onto a much nicer corridor which Garrett recognised as the corridor that had led to the library, the bathroom and the other bedrooms. Instead, he returned to the side-corridor and looped around to the back of the stairs he had just ascended, and there, down by his knees, was a panel that jutted out from the wall by an inch or so.

Kneeling down next to the panel, Garrett inspected it closely. It turned out that the panel wasn’t so much a panel as another small vent in the wall, ringed in a dark brown wooden border. It was only _just_ small enough for him to squeeze through, like the vent in the kitchen, so he lowered himself onto his belly, following the smell of food, and wriggled through. The edges of a fan blade peeked out from a deep ridge cutting through a cross-section of the vent, and testing it gently, Garrett found it was sturdy, with thick metal blades. There was no dust in this vent like there had been in the vent in Dunwall Tower, which indicated to Garrett that this was still in use at times. A much smaller chute dipped off to his right side, descending into the darkness, much too small for him to even consider wriggling through, so he continued.

As he expected, the vent led through to the ledge at the top of the ballroom, and not only did it do that, it also looked out over the ballroom, giving him a clear vantage point. He took a moment to gain his footing on the ledge, balancing himself with one hand, running his fingertips across the beading on the lower side, and edged forwards, one step at a time. He was painfully exposed here. If someone spotted him, he would be in serious danger.

There were also several people in the room, eating and talking and smoking. One of them had already started on some unknown bottle of alcohol, despite the fact that it was still early morning, while others were eating, helping themselves to platters of food on the table. Garrett backed into a corner, double-checking that the light level was low enough to cloak him from the view of those on the floor, and watched them intently. As the smell of tobacco floated up towards him, he covered his mouth and nose with his mask, trying his best to keep the worst of it out. He couldn’t cough, not here.

He knew that if he intended on getting out of the house at any point, his best bet would be to track the group carefully, let them do their work, and then follow them outside. His chances of sneaking around undetected in the night were reasonable, but the hours of artificial light were longer than the hours of dark and he risked running out of time. He wrung his hands, still feeling the pain of the bolt from the front door keyhole the previous night. He knew he would be hard-pressed to try again.

Corvo was down there, sat in one corner of the room by himself, turning a goblet over and over in his hands. Despite himself, Garrett’s stomach clenched and he found himself grinding his teeth in anxiety. He didn’t appear to be taking part in the conversation at the table with everyone else, but Garrett knew eavesdropping when he saw it.

Garrett couldn’t make much sense of the conversation lacking context, but it appeared to be an argument of some sort. A squirrely man with oiled hair and a wide mouth was conversing - rather loudly - with an older man who had a young woman by his side, backing him up. They continued like this for several minutes as Garrett shuffled himself further and further back into the corner before something caught his ear.

“You don’t think, Corvo,” the oldest man said over his toast, “That the person who… how do I put this… is _exacerbating_ the situation is the one we haven’t seen since yesterday morning?”

Corvo was clearly loathe to be drawn into this argument. Something told Garrett that the old man was trying to engage Corvo and taunt him over Garrett. “Why would he be in here with us if he was the mastermind? Why would he imprison himself?”

Garrett noticed that the rest of the hall had gone very quiet.

“A decoy,” the old man said, “Maybe he’s a red herring. A member of a criminal gang.” He leaned forwards, “Would it not make sense to assume he - or they - would be trying to incriminate Jindosh?”

“That’s a good point, but I _know_ it’s not him.”

“Corvo, listen,” one of the younger men from the ballroom said, turning to him, “Bevis has a point. You need to think about who you trust here. Why would you blindly side with a man you’ve never met, who’s never given you counsel?”

There was a silence. Corvo looked like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek.

The old man struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as it clicked on the floor, then began to circle the table like a vulture, watching Corvo carefully. “You have something to do with this, don’t you?”

There was silence. Corvo looked at the old man with his mouth hanging half-open.

“You orchestrated this and he’s in on it, isn’t he?”

“No!” Corvo shouted and rose to his feet abruptly, making Garrett jump, “I have _nothing_ to do with this. How _dare_ you suggest that? I’m just as fucked as you are. I’m scared too. I _want to get out too._ ”

The old man let an age pass before he clicked his cane on the floor once again and stared at him with what Garrett could only imagine was a grin. “Then you won’t have any problem with letting us find him and coax some answers out of him, will you?”

All the colour drained from Corvo’s face. Garrett could see him gripping the back of the chair and gritting his teeth as Garrett was doing up on the balcony. “If you touch him I will _personally_ make you pay as Burrows did. As Ramsey did. As all the bastards who’ve crossed me, _I will make you pay._ I’m giving you one last chance, Bevis. Leave him alone or you’ll face the consequences.”

Bevis fell silent. From Garrett’s ledge, it looked like the whole room was watching Corvo. Garrett, however, was surprised. After all this, after everything Garrett had said and done, he was still defending him. He didn’t dare think that Corvo was trying to protect him, that was far too risky a thought process, but it seemed like…

The knot of guilt tightened in his belly. Maybe he _had_ been wrong about Corvo. Maybe his tirade had been far too heavy-handed.

He couldn’t think. The people gathered in the room clearly hadn’t found any viable clues or ways out of the house, so Garrett decided to leave. He took a moment to check the room with the Primal, and then began to edge back towards the vent. One foot in front of the other. In front of the other. In front of the other.

There was a crunching sound, and then a crack. 

Garrett instinctively pitched himself forwards then grabbed onto the ledge as part of the brickwork collapsed behind him, leaving stone tumbling to the ground where it shattered and exploded, throwing dust into the air. Corvo’s head snapped to Garrett’s position, as did the heads of everyone else in the room.

He needed to move.

He began to crawl on his hands and knees, then increased his speed by balancing himself on his feet instead and continued bear crawling towards the vent. He heard a shout from Bevis, a loud, echoing “Get him!” before someone from down below picked up one of the pieces of debris from the ledge and _flung it. _It narrowly missed his legs as he reached the vent, exploding behind him, and more shouts sounded from below, the sound of a door banging open.__

__Garrett shuffled into the vent and took a moment to catch his breath, clutching his hands to his chest, adrenaline pumping, heart thudding. He had to go._ _

__He had to find a secret place to hide before they got to him._ _


	8. Day 1, The Roving Feet: Part 2

Day 1: The Roving Feet  
Part 2

Corvo had his fists clenched tightly around Jindosh’s collar before he had time to follow the others out of the room. He had seen him pick up the ledge debris before he had chance to stop him, and watched as he hurled it towards Garrett’s rapidly retreating form, horrified.

Corvo was holding Jindosh tightly, slightly elevated so his feet were barely touching the floor. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open, gasping for air in a way that distinctly reminded Corvo of a particularly ugly deep sea creature. His hands scrabbled at Corvo’s, desperately trying to find purchase, but Corvo was unyielding. He looked at Jindosh with dark eyes and gritted teeth, drew in close enough to feel his breath on his cheek, and growled at him. “If you _ever_ do that again, I will personally make sure you never see the light of day again. Is that clear? You will _never_ hurt an innocent on my watch.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Corvo?” Jindosh said, his eyes narrow, and then choked as Corvo tightened his grip and growled.

Jindosh cowered, then continued to grapple with Corvo’s fists for a moment before relaxing and averting his gaze. He nodded once, then twice. Apologised. A couple of moments passed while Corvo continued to observe Jindosh from up close, before dropping him roughly to the floor and then walking off, following the others who had exited the room via the large double doors at the very end of the ballroom. Jindosh took a moment to rub his throat, waiting for it to stop aching, then stopped, sat down on one of the chairs, still panting, and watched Corvo as he left through the doors.

Unfortunately, Bevis seemed to have convinced Jacques, Theo and Lucy to help him search for Garrett. Corvo could hear their footsteps on the other side of the house, thudding up the stairs near the servant’s quarters and into the first floor of the house near the vent where Garrett had emerged. Although Corvo hadn’t managed to investigate all the house by himself (as much as he’d wanted to), he trusted Lucy to document a rough floor plan using her map, and he hoped that she’d managed to get the room with the vent down, mostly because it would indicate to him that she’d been thorough in her searches and they weren’t missing anything. The whole thing was a conundrum. It seemed like there really was no way out, no indication of what to do, no contact from the outside world. Surely Alexandria would have kicked up a fuss and told someone, _anyone_ , but nobody had showed. It was perplexing.

Indeed, Corvo was no longer in fear for his life; surely they would all be dead by now if this was an assassination, but plenty of other things bothered him. The Clockwork Soldier, towering above him, stared blankly as he passed it on the way to the stairs. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he passed it, like he was being watched by someone, like it might spring to life and kill him at any moment. Did Garrett know how dangerous these things were? Did Corvo need to warn him - would he even have the chance? What lengths would Garrett go to to avoid him? 

He found the rest of the group upstairs, still searching. Suleiman seemed to have disappeared during the ruckus, presumably gone to the garden to spend time alone away from the noise and clamour. Jacques turned to him as Corvo appeared at the top of the steps and tilted his head, in an unreadable question. Corvo shrugged, wondering how he could safely defuse the situation without drawing too much attention to himself, as if he hadn’t done that already, to do something to protect Garrett. He was under no impression that either they would treat Garrett well, or he would cooperate with them. If they found him, it would all blow up in their faces.

Bevis, Corvo noticed, was ignoring him and directing the others to continue searching. By himself, he was too old and frail to begin kneeling down on the floor and climbing on top of bookcases and furniture to search for Garrett, so he just stood in the centre of it all, leaning heavily on his cane, shouting.

“No luck,” Theo said, appearing from behind a corner, his face red and sweaty from the exertion of running up the stairs, “He’s probably gotten away by now, anyway. He could be anywhere.”

“You’re right,” Bevis said, turning to face Theo and Corvo, “Who knows what he might be doing, what he might be hiding.”

Corvo scoffed and turned away from Bevis, addressing Theo directly. “I need some air. Are you coming?”

Really, he didn’t _need air_. He wanted to stay inside and redirect the others, but that wouldn’t be safe unless he knew exactly where Garrett was, otherwise he might be indirectly causing more trouble. It was safer simply to split the group up as much as possible, to splinter their efforts, to shamble them and make it easier for Garrett to hear them coming. Removing one member of the group was the least he could do, and reduce their numbers to three.

Theo froze for a moment, uncertain, and looked around, then back at Bevis for permission or reassurance. Bevis failed to acknowledge him, preferring to issue instructions more aggressively than give Theo permission to leave. Eventually, after a couple of long seconds spent in silence, Theo nodded in agreement, then followed Corvo out of the corridor and back down the stairs.

The garden smelled perfumed, as so many houses in the Estate District were wont to do. Corvo and Theo took a seat on a bench on the decking at the side of the house, observing the garden, sitting quietly together, Theo pulling out a cigarette, offering one to Corvo, and then lighting it when it was declined. Corvo simply relaxed back into the bench, hoping the tension in his stomach would dissipate with the fresh air of the morning, thinking about the situation, plotting and formulating and synthesising potential escape plans.

Suleiman, it turned out, was in the garden. He waved at the pair as the exited the house via the aged door and went back to whatever he had been doing before - trying to break into the shed. It seemed he was far out of earshot. Theo puffed on his cigarette, observed Suleiman working away in the corner of the garden, and then turned to Corvo.

“You know him, right?” he said, jerking his head towards Suleiman in an offhand manner, “You seemed to recognise him when he turned up earlier.”

“I do,” Corvo confirmed, “I employed him to help work out what’s been happening with Emily and how to get her back. The High Overseer didn’t seem to like that, though.”

“And correct me if I’m wrong here,” Theo said, continuing to puff on his cigarette, staring down at the decking in front of him, “But he worships the Outsider, right?”

Corvo, slightly taken aback by this, turned to Theo, eyebrows slightly raised. “That’s a loaded question. Why do you ask?”

Theo nodded silently, looking out into the garden, watching Suleiman as he tried to work his way into the shed and occasionally scratched his forehead absent-mindedly. “I was wondering. Overheard some stuff in the tower. Apologies if this is too forward,” he said slowly, choosing his words very carefully, “but why do you always wear that wrap on your hand?”

Corvo felt his face flushing and he instinctively retracted his hand, bringing his hands together and tucking them in the loose sleeves of his bathrobe. He wasn’t even nearly close enough to Theo to even dream of disclosing his relationship with the Outsider to him. “That’s a very personal question.” A long pause as Theo continued to stare at him. “I had an accident.”

_‘Accident’_ wasn’t an entirely untruthful way of saying it. He had _accidentally_ fallen in with the Loyalists all those years ago. He had only _accidentally_ been involved in taking down Delilah’s coup - it was only a side-effect of trying to get Emily back after all. Meeting with the Outsider had always been accidents, he didn’t want to listen to the undergrown excuse for a god constantly chastise him for making mistakes, he hadn’t asked for any of this. 

Theo looked at him expectantly, then relented. Lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and leaned in. “I only say this because I have an… interest in the Outsider. This is strictly between you and I, mind” he said, frowning, “But my son, Cyrus, before he died, worshipped him. I only found out when I could bring myself to enter his room several months after… after he left. I found stacks of papers and bits of whale bone and candles, offerings, everything. I wish he’d been able to trust me enough to tell him but,” Theo stopped and swallowed back a hitch in his breath, “what’s done is done. I feel drawn to him just like Cyrus was, and I don’t know if that’s because I want to feel closer to him or just to satisfy my own needs.”

Corvo remained silent, not sure what to make of this sudden outburst.

“But if we aren’t to make it out of this place,” Theo continued, seemingly oblivious to Corvo’s reservations, “I’d like to join him, in the Void if need be. I want to see my Cyrus again.”

That sounded… _worrying._ Corvo observed Theo carefully as he sat on the little bench in silence, finishing off his cigarette, then taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. Moments passed before he finally placed them back on the bridge of his nose, readjusted them, then turned to Corvo and shot him a watery smile.

“I’m sorry,” Theo said, “I guess the last two days have been too much for me. I think I’m going to rest.” He stood up, brushed himself off and breathed in the warm noon air, the smell of the stream and the little apple blossoms, then stopped himself abruptly. “Can I ask you one more question?”

Corvo’s ears perked up and he nodded at Theo, not sure whether he actually wanted to hear what was about to be asked of him. “What is it?”

“That man, the one we saw this morning in the ballroom. Do you know him?”

It seemed to Corvo that it would be blatantly obvious that he knew Garrett, so Theo’s question caught him off-guard. Could he really trust Theo not to go and run his mouth to Bevis or Jindosh? What sort of impression would it give everyone else of him? How detrimental would it be if it came out that he had been blatantly lying to everyone else in the house, and how much of his history with Garrett would he be able to reveal safely? It was entirely possible that he could tell Theo a half-truth, minimise the less tasteful bits and just say he’d met him on some unnamed street corner, but the problem was with everyone else. He _couldn’t_ be seen trusting Theo with information and nobody else, and it very much had the potential to tip the balance against Garrett, to put him in danger.

A bird sang somewhere. From inside the house, the clock chimed two. They had been sitting there for a long time. Theo looked at him expectantly.

Corvo struggled with his words, tripping and stumbling over his own tongue, stuttering and stammering through a partial truth. “He was… a colleague. I knew him years ago, and I haven’t seen him since then. I want the others to stop looking for him because he likes privacy and he’s completely harmless. If Bevis were to find him and back him into a corner or trap him, it would be very stressful for him.”

Theo squinted at him, as if he was still digesting Corvo’s explanation. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

He hadn’t told them sooner because Corvo knew that his association with a career criminal would damage his standing and cast doubt on the purity of his intentions, both inside the manor and out. He needed more time. More time to think up a plausible substitute and feed it to the rest of the occupants in a controlled manner.

“Listen, Theo, I feel like this would be best conducted as part of a meeting so everyone can get on the same page about that man and in which ways he is related to me. Don’t worry about relaying what I’ve just said to everyone else. We’ll meet at 10pm in the ballroom and I can explain everything.”

Thankfully, Theo seemed entirely satisfied with this proposal. He adjusted his spectacles again, smiled at Corvo, the last of the redness gone from his face, and nodded. “Alright. That works. Thank you for being up-front with me, we might be making progress!”

Corvo laughed and nudged him with his elbow. “Don’t get your hopes up yet, I think we all have more secrets than we’re willing to share.”

“Too right. Well, I’m going up to my room. I’ll be back down in time for your meeting.”

Corvo smiled at Theo once again as he retreated, opened and then closed the door back into the house with a _creak_ , leaving Corvo still sat on the bench on the decking, listening to the birds singing without a care in the world. As if nothing was wrong. He watched Suleiman as he continued to fiddle with the lock affixed to the shed door, as he had been doing since before Corvo and Theo had left the house and sat down on the porch. He took a few moments to himself, continuing the little peace he could find in this place, breathing in the quietness and the calm before he steeled himself, stood up, and walked over to Suleiman, descending the gentle slope in the long grass and wildflowers, greeting him as he approached.

“I searched the stream,” Suleiman said, so engrossed in his work that he failed to look up at Corvo from where he was knelt down, “there’s a grate, it seems that there’s a source of water beneath the house. If it rains too much, this place will flood, badly. The wall down there--” he pointed at the wall bordering the end of the garden, “It’s not porous enough to let much more water through, so this place will flood from the bottom up.”

“And what does this mean for us? What about that well? Could we just dig beneath the wall and escape out the back?”

“For a start,” Suleiman said, finally standing up and looking Corvo in the eye, “the ground floor of the house and the cellar will flood quickly if it rains too much, unless that well is a method of containing overflow and limiting damage, which would mean it’s not for drinking purposes. There might be some kind of collection network below the house, but we’d need to explore it.”

“It’s very deep.” Corvo said, walking over to the well and peering down the hole. He picked a nearby stone up off the ground and dropped it down, counting the seconds until the noise bounced back up. It was long. Far too long.

A muffled _plink_ finally reached him and he looked over at Suleiman, who nodded back, solemnly, then picked up a stick and began drawing in the dirt beside the well.

“How long did it take to reach the bottom?”

“About seven seconds.”

Corvo watched Suleiman as he began to scratch away, whittling numbers into the dust. “Sounds like it’s about 114 feet deep. More if there’s water in the bottom.”

“We’d be risking a lot just by trying to get down there,” Corvo said, “It might not even lead anywhere. Go down at the wrong time, and we also risk drowning. If we knot some bedsheets together and lower one of our own down, they could fall. The rope could snap, and they would be trapped if we ran out of spares.”

“I agree, it’s too risky.” Suleiman said, nodding in agreement, “But maybe there’s some other entrance somewhere. We should look for it.”

“And the wall at the end of the garden?”

Suleiman’s eyes widened for a split second and his face drained of colour. He leant in close enough for Corvo to feel his breath on his cheek, and whispered in the lowest voice possible. “I believe there are other people on the side of that wall. I heard footsteps. Voices.”

Corvo’s stomach dropped. The thought that the house might actually be guarded by people had crossed his mind briefly, but he hadn’t considered it a real possibility. Maybe if Bevis was responsible for this, he’d be able to organise and pay enough men to ring the wall, but why? He stopped very still, listening carefully for what Suleiman had reported, but heard nothing.

“Are you sure you heard that?”

“Certain.” Suleiman said, his voice entirely sincere, “You have been gifted by the Outsider, have you not? Are you able to see through walls and see the sound of footsteps?”

Corvo looked at him for a moment, slightly crouched to match Suleiman’s height, then drew back and turned to the wall at the other side of the garden. Uncertain, he crept forward, trying to make as little sound as possible, then activated Dark Vision.

_Tried_ to activate it.

Nothing happened.

“What?” Corvo asked, more to himself than to Suleiman, “That’s strange.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing happened,” Corvo said, staring at the back of his wrapped hand, “it didn’t work.”

Suleiman hummed to himself, his hand stroking his chin and the three-day old stubble that had grown there while he had been captured and imprisoned by the Overseers. “That’s bad news. Very bad news.”

Corvo agreed. If he couldn’t use his powers to try to escape, then that was one further avenue of escape shut off from him, one more thing to worry about. Had the Outsider simply decided to abandon him in his time of need? It couldn’t be. He needed to think. He needed to be alone. He needed to collect himself and _think of a better plan._

“I’m going to go back inside,” Corvo said with a dry mouth and a knot in his stomach, “I need to think for a bit.”

“Very well,” Suleiman said, and nodded, “And Corvo - about the shed?” He waited for Corvo’s hum of acknowledgement, then continued. “I will need lockpicks or bolt cutters to get into here. I can’t do it by myself.”

“Consider it done. I’ll find something for you to use.”

“Thank you,” Suleiman said, “I will find you later.”

* * *

Although Garrett had not, in any way, shape or form, intended on being spotted, he wasn’t sure if he regretted his venture out into the ballroom or not. Yes, he had been forced to hide yet again, making his break across the house and as far away from the vent as quickly as possible, but the whole time, his mind had been buzzing, thinking about what Corvo had said, running it over and over, analysing it for every possible interpretation.

Eventually, he came to a conclusion, but it gave him no closure; in fact, it had put him in a worse situation by any measure. The only possible explanation to Garrett was that Corvo had been sincere in his apology, in his obvious regret for everything that had happened, for the lie that had led to their separation. Now, even after all this time, after his outburst the previous evening and all the anger and hate he had suffered for the past _eight years,_ it seemed that Corvo was still defending him, still respecting his need for space, still predicting how Garrett would feel. It made him uneasy at first, but as each minute passed, hiding in his nest in the laundry room, the unease turned into guilt, and then an overwhelming desire to find Corvo again, to apologise, to thank him for defending him, possibly to his own detriment.

The whole thing was silly. He chastised himself for being so soft. He had always been perfectly happy living alone by himself, with only the company of Jenivere and Basso (and even that was sporadic at best). He’d had an equilibrium, and Corvo had ruined it all. Where had it all gone so wrong?

It took several hours for the other occupants of the house to audibly stop searching for him. It seemed that they had eventually dispersed, pulled apart by the boredom and exhaustion that naturally came with searching for someone like him. Maybe he _could_ be a ghost if he needed to, after all.

The big clock in the hallway had struck four by the time he felt empowered to emerge from his nest again. It was still bright - too bright - but with luck, he would be able to avoid detection if he stayed in the dark and kept his ears open. 

Like that had worked the last time.

But something about Corvo’s presence, and more importantly his defence of Garrett in his absence, empowered him. It made him reckless. He didn’t like it; it scared him.

Regardless, he untangled himself several minutes after the strike of four and, taking a moment to compose himself, left the room, shutting the door behind him carefully. There was still much of this house to explore, still secrets left to be uncovered, still exits to be found. He felt that, although he had spent the last day or so avoiding the other people in the house, he probably had a good general idea of how the ground floor of the house panned out, and part of the first. A house this big, he rationalised, would probably have some sort of attic room, somewhere that other people would be unlikely to go, maybe with some kind of way out through the roof. Somewhere that he could sit and observe and plan in safety.

He ascended through the house quickly, creeping from shadow to shadow, listening out for footsteps and voices. Taking a small detour, he dared poking his head around the door of the ballroom, and found several plates of partially-eaten food still laid out from before. He needed to eat, regardless of how dangerous it was to find food. The table’s offerings weren’t exactly rich - mostly bread and fruit and some other foods that Garrett didn’t recognise, probably native to Dunwall - but he picked up what he could anyway, hid it in one of his pouches, and sped off upstairs.

The place was quiet, almost eerily so. Garrett couldn’t help but wonder where all the other people were, considering it was mid-afternoon. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that some of them were sleeping, as it didn’t seem like there was a lot to do in this house in the way of work or entertainment, but it would be folly to assume none of them were still on the lookout for him. His instincts, the arrogant part of himself wanted to tease them, to steal whatever valuables they happened to have with them just to put them back in their place and make himself feel better, but he dismissed the idea. If things went wrong in this place, there was nowhere to run.

Nowhere to run, but everywhere to hide.

After some time, he found himself in the attic of the house, or more rather _outside_ the attic. The place was barricaded with some kind of door, one that somehow didn’t have a lock to pick or a gap between the door and frame in which he could slide something small to feel around and maybe gather some clues. He tapped on the door expectantly, the rapping as quiet as he could possibly manage, trying to discern what kind of material the door was made out of. It didn’t seem _hollow_ as such, it was clearly made out of some kind of wood, maybe reinforced on the inside. When he placed his hands on the door and _pushed_ as hard as he could with a grunt, there was no give whatsoever perpendicular to the face of the door. Short of kicking it in (and consequently making a lot of unnecessary noise), there would be no way of getting in, and the lack of ‘give’ indicated to Garrett that this was probably a sliding door - that it was designed to slide along a pair of rails on the other side rather than swing outward or inward from the hinges.

Sighing in frustration, he Focused and inspected the door again, closer. It seemed that he had been right; the door was indeed mounted on a pair of rails, one at the top of the door and one at the bottom, and it was reinforced with some kind of metal on the other side. The door, it appeared, had no lock at all on either side, and appeared to be bolted to something on the other side of the wall, obliterating all hope of opening it by himself, lockpicks or no. What _was_ interesting was at the very top of the door, or more rather, running to the top.

The bolts appeared to be red from where he was standing, and ‘lines’ of light ran from them to the very top of the door, where they all collected together and combined into one bigger line. These, if Garrett could guess, were probably wires or ropes of some kind, and the red line ran through the left wall and out of sight. In addition, a second, smaller red line ran to the side of the door at waist height and connected to some kind of mechanism. Garrett took a step back. It was entirely possible that this door was a trap, and trying to open it would be dangerous for whoever attempted it.

He felt his energy slipping away from him, so he stopped his Focus and sat down a few steps down from where the door was, thinking. This was very interesting, and most importantly, it seemed that there hadn’t been anyone on the other side. 

Absentmindedly, he pulled some of the bread he had collected earlier from one of his pouches and turned it over in his hands, thinking. Maybe the best thing to do would be to wait for the night again, until all the lights in the house went out, and then investigate the wires further, to see where they led. He had a feeling that finding the other end of the wires would enable him to open the door and investigate the attic further. Whoever had trapped him in this house had gone to great lengths to keep secrets for them, and he doubted that without the ability to Focus, he would never have been able to work it out.

Perhaps Corvo had some kind of power to allow him to see through walls. He was still very much on the fence about allowing Corvo to find him and even more so about actually talking to him, but maybe it would be possible for them to work together and find a way out.

He knew he was being silly.

He turned back to the bread he was still turning over and over in his hands. He felt anxious at the prospect of eating food that might possibly be poisoned or make him sick. It didn’t smell like the old City bread, which seemed to be mostly sawdust or ash or something equally distasteful, but almost… _fishy._ There wasn’t much of the smell there at all, as elusive as an escape route in this house, but it was there indeed.

Could one of them poisoned the food when they’d seen Garrett in the ballroom? When they were looking for him, had they intended on stringing him up or cutting his throat anyway? The hunger melted away in his stomach, and he put it down on the step next to him, observing it, as if it were to jump up and bite him. Could he trust anything in this place?

The real question was this: how long would he be here? If he were to find his way out the next day, he wouldn’t have to eat, he wouldn’t have to risk his life for a piece of hardened bread and he could continue as if nothing happened, but the uncertainty was great. If he allowed himself to give into his anxieties for too long, it was possible that he would do irreparable damage to himself.

He knew that the food was not poisoned as it had arrived because the others had eaten it and they were all still alive. The uncertainty stemmed from the very old man in the ballroom and the lengths he would go to to see Garrett neutralised. Did he know that Garrett didn’t have access to his own food, or was he assuming that Garrett was able to come and go at will, and hence have his own personal supply?

The bread seemed to smell fine, apart from the fishy scent. _Everything_ in Dunwall smelled of fish, though; it wasn’t anything new. He broke off a piece and inspected it closer, looking for signs of contamination, and found none. Took it in his mouth and chewed. Nothing tasted particularly amiss.

Maybe it would be safer to leave it at that, hold onto the bread, and finish the rest of it later when he was sure he wouldn’t suffer adverse effects. If it was poisoned and he was lucky, within the next few hours he’d be feeling unpleasant but, most importantly, nonlethal symptoms. 

That seemed about right.

He stood up again, groaning under his breath as his knees protested, and descended the stairs again, through the other floors of the house, skillfully avoiding the watchful eyes of the other guests, and returned to his nest.

Still, somehow, they had not found him. He was safe.

* * *

The house was oddly quiet for this time of the evening.

Corvo had returned to the garden some time ago with the intention of sitting outside in the peace and quiet, to watch the butterflies and the bees, to reflect on everything that had happened and maybe find some inner calm. Suleiman had disappeared long ago, leaving him sat on the bench alone, listening to the sound of the stream, thinking.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the last few days. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to him if arguments or fights began to break out very soon. The tension was thick; it wound its way around Corvo’s throat and choked him when spending any significant amount of time with anyone but Suleiman, made him want to leave, to get out and be by himself in the garden yet again.

Over the course of the late afternoon, the air outside had thickened and soured. Clouds had come rushing in from the east, bringing with them cold wind and an unseasonable chill. Droplets of rain began to pitter-patter on the ground, releasing the petrichor from the ground and into the air. Corvo just watched it all from his bench, thinking.

Time passed.

Eventually, after many hours, it became too dark to see anything as night fell and the clouds darkened even further still. Cold wrapped itself around Corvo and he pulled the still-damp clothes that he had earlier changed into closer to his body, the drizzle turning into a downpour. A dim flash of light in the distance and, after several seconds, the rumble of thunder prompted him finally to get up and return to the house, to seek shelter and warmth.

Aimlessly, he wandered around the house, having given up on trying to find a new way out. He sidled up to the huge clock in the hallway, next to the main doors, reading the time. Nine-thirty. Nearly time for his meeting, and he had come up with _nothing._ How was he supposed to explain to the others that Garrett wasn’t a danger to anyone in the house without revealing his own dealings with death back in the days of the Loyalists? How was he supposed to garner the support of Bevis and Jindosh unless they began to see him as more of an ally than an enemy?

Unsure of what else to do with himself, he wandered back into the ballroom, still bearing the plates from the evening meal that had arrived several hours ago. He settled himself down in a chair by one of the dark, panelled walls, then returned to the table, picked up a decanter of wine and poured it into a spare glass. He held it up to the light for a moment, swirled it around, then headed back to the chair. He sipped on the wine as the time passed, wishing he had the energy and the motivation to return to the library and collect a book to read while he waited for the others, to take his mind off the nerves, but instead he simply listened to the ticking of the clock and the low flickering of the fire, his head in his hands.

After some time, Corvo heard footsteps outside the main doors to the ballroom and looked up, expectantly. Slow, weak and unsteady, they became louder and louder until the door swung open with a creak, and Bevis walked in, head held high. Ignoring Corvo’s presence, he took a seat at the head of the grand table, helped himself to cheese and crackers, and pulled out a book, settling into a stillness that only the occasional _flicks_ of a turning page interrupted.

They sat together in silence for some time.

Corvo stared at Bevis’s turned head from the other side of the ballroom, not sure whether he hoped the old man felt intimidated or not. He wasn’t sure if anything needed to be said, if silence was the best bet, or just to avoid the topic of Garrett forever. He wished he’d never met the bastard. His glare burned while Bevis ignored him, but shortly it was interrupted by several other sets of footsteps, and a small group of people walked in through the double doors, chatting with each other. They acknowledged both Corvo and Bevis, and after a fashion sat themselves down at the table, pouring themselves glasses of wine, helping themselves to cigarettes or, in Suleiman’s case, jotting several lines’ worth of notes down on a scrap of paper. He never seemed to stop working. Corvo almost envied his passion and dedication to his interests; if that were the case, then the Empire would be in the best shape it had ever been.

Stragglers eventually worked their way into the ballroom over a period of about fifteen minutes, making the meeting late by some time. Corvo decided not to bother to rise from his seat, not to make the effort until everyone had made it to the meeting because he didn’t want to repeat himself. Lucy, Jacques, Giovanni, Jindosh and Suleiman all filed into the room, some visibly exhausted and some not so much. Giovanni, it seemed, had probably been searching for Giulia all day and consequently looked ragged, his hair and clothes dishevelled, his knees dusty, hands dirty. Emotionally, the Serkonan ambassador looked drained too, like the house was pulling every last strand of energy and life from his body, piece by piece. Pity stirred in Corvo’s stomach. Nobody should have to go through this.

After some time, the other occupants of the house began to get restless, some shuffling quietly, some getting up and pacing around the room, some looking expectantly to Corvo. Jacques, one of the most outspoken of the guests, finally turned to Corvo from the table, and raised his eyebrows.

“Are we going to start or what? What did you want to meet us for?” His tone was sharp, like he was frustrated at being made to wait. Corvo knew how it was. He was the same.

“We’re still missing one,” Lucy said from Giovanni’s side, looking here and there, “Theo isn’t here yet. Did you tell him where we were meeting?”

That was odd. Corvo furrowed his eyebrows, suddenly confused and slightly annoyed. “Yes. He was the first person I told. If anyone should be here, it’s him.”

“Perhaps he got lost?” Lucy asked hopefully, the shadow of a smile crossing her lips, shrugging. “Perhaps he fell asleep in his room and hasn’t woken up yet?”

In all fairness, that was an entirely plausible explanation. Corvo nodded in acceptance of her theory, then jerked his head upwards to the first floor. “Feel like going to get him?”

Giovanni and Bevis turned to her as she rolled her eyes, sighed, and pushed her chair back with a low _scrape_ then left the room at a brisk clip. The room fell into silence, listening to Lucy’s footsteps as they ascended the stairs one at a time, then proceeded out of earshot across the landing.

Silence.

Then more footsteps. 

Running.

Lucy returned to the ballroom panting and white as a sheet. Jacques abruptly rose from his seat, made to place a hand on her shoulder and guided her back into a seat, suddenly looking just as worried as her. “What happened?” he insisted, “Where’s Theo?”

“He’s not there,” she said through pants of breath, “He’s not in his room.”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Jacques said, standing up, lighting a cigarette, suddenly looking as unconcerned as he was before. “He’s probably gone and fallen asleep somewhere else instead. In the library, maybe. Maybe he took a bath and he’s delayed.”

Lucy nodded uncertainly, a hitching, shaking jolt of the head. “Probably,” she agreed, taking a moment to sit back in her seat, “this place is really getting to me.”

“Should we look for him, then?” Bevis asked, rising with some difficulty, supported heavily by his cane. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of those present, and Corvo sighed internally. He had wanted to get this meeting over and done with as soon as possible, but it seemed like that was always an impossible request. He had discovered that while serving as Emperor.

“We meet back here at half-ten if we don’t find him.” Jacques said to a chorus of approval.

They organised a plan, then dispersed quickly. Corvo was to search all the bedrooms of the house for any signs of Theo, going through cupboards, looking under beds and behind doors. Calls of his name echoed throughout the house, from all the different floors and the different areas; the servant’s quarters, the kitchen, the cellar, the library. 

Corvo’s search space included his own bedroom. He came to it last, slipping in through the door and closing it carefully, taking quick stock of the general state of the room, which looked untouched. He had more important things to check. He swept over to the dresser behind which he had hidden the butter knife that he had taken earlier, hoping it might be useful for removing screws or using as a general multi-purpose tool, and moved the furniture aside, scanning the floor and the wall for the silver glint.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped and his mouth went dry. He _knew_ he hadn’t moved the knife, and the only time he had been in his room since returning in the morning to hang up his clothes had been to put them back on. Corvo pulled the dresser out completely, searching around the back, hoping against hope that maybe it had caught on one of the legs, maybe his eyes had just slipped over it while looking, and slid his hand along the bottom of the dresser as a last-resort.

He hadn’t been mistaken. The knife really was gone, and Corvo hadn’t been the one to take it.

Someone had come into his room and taken it.

The more disturbing implication was that someone had seen him take the knife and knew that he had deposited it in his room, behind that specific dresser. He returned the dresser to its initial resting place and stood up, ran a hand down over his face, then bit the side of his finger anxiously. This was _bad news._

When Corvo had finished searching, and after triple-checking that his butter knife was nowhere to be found, he went to join Suleiman in his search of the bathroom, and once again found nothing. No sign of the butter knife, and no sign of Theo.

As if he had just vanished into space.

At half-past ten, the occupants reconvened in the ballroom in a sombre mood. It seemed that, even without having to ask for confirmation, that nobody had found Theo, putting them in a bad spot and an anxious mood. The purpose of Corvo’s meeting had long been forgotten in the frenzied search for Theo, and several of the guests had begun to smoke, while others drank.

“No sign of him, then?” Jacques asked, looking over at Corvo as he and Suleiman sat down at the edge of the room. Corvo shook his head in reply. Their faces were grave.

“What do you propose we do now?” Jindosh asked, finally having gained the courage to speak up after his altercation with Corvo that morning. “If he doesn’t want to show himself, then he won’t. There’s not a lot that can be done about that.”

There were muffled mutters and grunts. It was true. Maybe Theo just didn’t want to be found. Corvo was sure that there were other hiding places in the house, but it didn’t bode well that he hadn’t even responded to his name.

There were several minutes of silence. Corvo began pacing to and fro, shut the double-doors of the ballroom with a little more force than was necessary but ignored it, continued walking, nervous, stopping only to pour himself more wine. He didn’t know what to do. He had never experienced this kind of situation before. Should they all just go to bed and hope he turned up in the morning.

Eventually, the silence was broken by Bevis, who once again climbed to his feet, his face screwed up in pain as his legs appeared to give resistance, and addressed the rest of the room. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m--”

There was a noise from outside the doors. A thud. Several thuds. Like the sound of someone falling down a flight of stairs.

A quiet _squeak_ and then silence.

Corvo and Lucy looked at each other, and then at Jacques, who had gone white as a sheet, his cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, forgotten. He rose to his feet once again and jogged to the door, the others watching him apprehensively, and swung the door open.

It could be seen from the ballroom.

The others on the other side of the room gasped. Some covered their mouths. Corvo joined Jacques at the open door, steeling himself.

There was an awful lot of blood on the floor.

Theo’s body lay lifeless at the bottom of the stairs. A cracked pair of spectacles had skidded off his nose and bounced off the wall at the other side of the hallway, mangled. Blood coated the bottom three steps, where Theo had skidded down them and left it dripping by his feet. His face, although lifeless, still bore an expression of shock.

There was a wail from inside the ballroom. A shout of dismay.

Jacques hurried over to Theo and turned him onto his side, pressing his index and middle finger to Theo’s neck, searching for a pulse. Several seconds passed as Corvo joined him, and after a while, Jacques looked up at Corvo, his face grim. He shook his head.

Theo was gone.

Kneeling down, Corvo took a closer look at the body, searching for the source of all the blood. It was quite possible that Theo had simply tripped and fallen down the stairs, had hit his head and died in an unfortunate accident, but the presence of a foreign body in the back of his head, right at the base of his skull confirmed his suspicion. A butter knife, wedged in and covered in blood, shone back at him. He suppressed the bile that felt like it were about to rise from his throat, and retreated back onto his knees, looking at Jacques.

This had been no accident. This was murder, clear as day. It must have taken a lot of force for whoever murdered Theo to get the knife in, especially considering the bluntness of the knife, and it wasn’t the sort of thing that killed quickly. _How had nobody heard?_

Corvo turned round and found Lucy standing behind him, tears streaming down her face, covering her mouth with her hand. Several other forms stood behind her, also watching Corvo and Jacques as they investigated the corpse.

Then it happened.

A deafening blast and a flash of bright light rocked the house. Corvo covered his ears out of instinct, then sheltered his head in anticipation of any rubble that might fall on him. He could feel his insides squeezing in on themselves, the panic that was restricting his airway, the cold sweats that had broken out on his neck and along his back, the burning, prickling feeling in his fingers.

There seemed only to be one blast. Silence. It was unclear whether the building had been hit or not. Were they somehow under attack? Had a war suddenly started?

Through the stained glass of the front door was a glow, casting itself across the wooden floor, illuminating Theo’s grey face and cold hands. There was screaming - but not from inside the house. In the distance, people were screaming loud enough for them to hear. The people of Dunwall were screaming. Chanting.

Chanting?

The chanting was louder than the screaming. It came from just outside the house, from the throats and lungs and mouths of hundreds of men. Hundreds of men that appeared - or at least sounded like - they were just behind the great wall that encircled the whole house.

_"Restrict roving feet that love to trespass. They pay no heed to the boundary stones of other men's fields. They wander into foreign lands, only to return with their soles blackened by iniquity.”_

“Oh no,” Jacques said from beside him, his face white and covered with a sheen of sweat, “In the Outsider’s name, please no.”

The chanting continued.

_“Where have you strayed that destruction now comes behind you? Would you walk across burning coals or broken glass? Then why do you prowl into the homes of the honest, or into the dens of hidden things, for the result is the same.”_

Corvo could hear Lucy crying from behind him and Jindosh’s frenzied shouting as he barged past the others and hammered on the front door.

_“You will fall into the Void! Instead, rest your feet on a firm foundation so that when the winds of the Outsider shriek against you, you will stand firm and not be overthrown."_

What could Corvo do? Theo was dead in his hands. They were surrounded by men chanting the fourth Stricture and had no way out. The people were screaming. Suffering. _His people._

Rage overtook Corvo. He had to make whoever had done this pay. He had to find them and _make them suffer._ He stood up quickly, his hands clasped to his head, pacing once again, resisting the urge to break the door down, knowing it was futile. What could he do? What could he _possibly_ do to make this better? And what had he done to deserve this? The screaming outside continued, reaching a peak several minutes after the chanting had stopped.

And what about Garrett?

He could see Bevis out of the corner of his eye standing by the foot of the stairs, observing Theo’s body. He looked at the old man, resisting the urge to fall to his knees in futility, and found only a blank expression. He could tell what Bevis was thinking. He was thinking that Garrett had murdered Theo, but he couldn’t. He _wouldn’t._

He had to warn him.

* * *

Corvo got very little sleep that night. He helped Jacques, Giovanni and Jindosh remove the body, wrap it in sheets, and they left it in the cellar to prevent it from decomposing and causing a health hazard. It was dirty, tiring work, and after the body was removed, there was still a lot of blood left to clean up. By the time they were all done, there were smears still streaked across the floor and the steps, but it was too late. The lights had gone out some time ago and they were working by the light of a lamp.

The work was conducted in silence. Nobody had anything to say, anyway.

All the while, all Corvo could think about was what Theo had said to him earlier that day about worshipping the Outsider as a way of getting closer to his deceased son. Now he had joined him in the Void, truly, but it didn’t make it any less painful.

The three men parted ways after some time. Corvo decided not to return to his room but instead spent the last hours of the night and the earliest of the morning wandering the house like a lost ghost.

How could he sleep at a time like this, after everything that had happened?

Eventually, he found himself in the library once again. Settling the lamp on a nearby table, he settled himself down in a chair, picked up the nearest book without even bothering to read the cover, and flicked through it mindlessly until sleep took him.


	9. Day 2, The Rampant Hunger: Part 1

Garrett spent the earliest hours of the morning searching the house, scanning each and every empty room for signs of the red wires that he had found running from the attic door the previous day, trying to figure out where they came from.

He had been abruptly woken the night before from his (already very fitful) sleep by an earth-shattering blast, crying and screaming from inside the house. He wasn’t sure if he really _did_ want to know or if he wanted to preserve his nerves by choosing to remain ignorant, but he was drawn by the mystery for hours after the house had fallen silent. Although the scene had been mostly cleaned, whoever had done the work had obviously been tired enough to make serious mistakes, so upon close inspection, Garrett found streaks of blood on the floor and a heavy iron scent in the air. Someone had been bleeding here, heavily. He gritted his teeth and moved on, eager to get away from the site of the injury and on towards his ultimate goal of escaping the house.

While searching the library, looking behind furniture and bookcases and under stairwells, Garrett stumbled upon Corvo’s sleeping body in a wing-backed chair, the lamp by his side now flickering itself into darkness fresh out of fuel, and a book resting open on his chest. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing deep and measured, but the frown lines had deepened since Garrett last saw him. His hair almost looked _greyer,_ as if he had aged several years in less than a day.

Briefly, Garrett contemplated waking Corvo to talk to him, to see if he had anything to say, _maybe_ even to apologise for the cutting words he had said the previous day, but the anxiety at the concept of willingly waking Corvo up and talking to him overpowered him. He slunk back off into the darkness, leaving the Emperor with his books and papers and the dying light, and set off to investigate other rooms. He had no time to waste thinking about what had happened and what could have been.

 _“Hypocrite.”_ He heard a voice whisper somewhere in the back of his mind in response to the thought as he backed out of the library and continued his journey. It had a point. He had spent the last eight years thinking about what had happened. Granted, it had been more pleasant than spending all his time thinking about what had happened to Erin on Orion’s ship, not by much, but the potential outcomes were more pleasant.

He continued walking down the corridor, following the red lines around the tops of the walls with his eyes, taking careful notice of the number of them and where they had come from. He had noticed, much to his horror, that he was actually more upset about any potential fate that Erin might have fallen to than what had happened to himself. When did he allow himself to get this soft? He’d lived through some horrendous experiences over the last few years, but he hadn’t even blinked at the thought of it. Erin, however, or more aptly Erin’s fate, was a different kettle of fish entirely.

The Queen of Beggars had once told him that there were worse things in the shadows than him. While that was obviously true upon surface inspection, he felt that it had held true for many other areas of his life. The unknown was frightening to him. Whether that was Erin’s fate or the secrets Corvo had been keeping from him, it all seemed more terrifying than everything he’d been through; having his home burned, the crippling migraines, the terrifying visions and hallucinations. He had never really thought about why Basso always looked at him with such an expression of concern on his face, and while he didn’t make it a habit to observe the events in his life from an outsider’s perspective, if he really tried, he could see where that concern came from. Yet, during all these events, they had never felt alien and foreign to him as the thought of what had happened to Erin. His stomach still churned and he felt cold at the thought of what _might have_ happened to her.

His mind wandered, and still he idly traced the red lines on the wall with his eyes.

It seemed that they stemmed from many different places and collected in one large bunch, creating a much larger red ‘pipe’, as he called them. The pipe ran its way up and along the top of the wall on the first floor of the house, passing above the many bedroom doors that lined the corridor, and continued down the hall. There were times when it disappeared, veered into some room or another that Garrett dare not disturb for fear of waking any of the occupants of the house, but usually it emerged again some rooms later. He had simply needed to have faith that they would appear again.

Given this, it was something of a shock to him when the pipe disappeared into one room and didn’t reappear further down the hallway. As soon as he realised that this was by far the longest time he’d gone without seeing any traces of the pipe, he doubled back on himself, feet light on the floor, searching for his quarry. 

The room that the pipe had disappeared into looked just the same as any of the other doors in the hallway. It was wooden, painted white, the handle slightly tarnished just as all the other doors - nothing that would immediately strike Garrett as out of the ordinary. Taking a risk, he knelt down on one knee and placed his hands on the doorframe, gently steadying himself, then drew in to stare through the keyhole. He found no other evidence of the pipe on the other side of the doorway… didn’t see much at all, actually, but noted that the air in the room seemed to be slightly colder than the air of the corridor when he pressed his eye up to the keyhole. He would be willing to bet anything that this room wasn’t occupied as the others were.

He looked from left to right and then back again for a moment, searching for an easy out if he needed it, then took a very big gamble. He grasped the handle firmly in his palm and pulled it, hoping against hope that it would swing open and allow him access to whatever was inside, let him access the traps and triggers that would allow him into the attic, but it didn’t budge. Miraculously, it also didn’t squeak. At least his captors oiled their door handles well.

Something about the thought of picking the lock felt distasteful to him after what had happened with the front door to the house two days ago, but he had prepared for this. Before he left his nest earlier that evening, he had pulled two strips of cloth from the bedsheets in the stocks in the laundry room, wrapped the handles of his lockpicks in them to protect his hands from whatever it was that had hurt him the last time around, and now he was hoping for the best.

He weighed the picks in his hands for a moment, his heart hammering, before finally convincing himself to try it. He inserted the picks into the locks tentatively and began to feel around with them, hoping he would be lucky enough to make some progress with these.

No dice.

He could feel the lockpicks growing hot very quickly, even beneath the cloth he had wrapped around the handles. As quickly as he could, he worked at the lock with his tools, nudging the pins (or what he thought were pins) around until the picks grew too hot, began to sear into his flesh, and he was forced to pull them back out again.

A faint burning smell reached his nose. Even in the low light of the corridor, he could see that the very tips of the lockpicks were glowing a dull red… and the tips didn’t even look like lockpick tips anymore. They had simply melted into useless blobs of metal, stuck to the ends of the prongs he used as handles, now completely useless.

He sighed in frustration and stared at the picks for a moment longer, rolling the cloth-wrapped handles between his fingers to prevent them from burning him, thinking. It seemed quite obvious to him by now that there would be no way of picking any of the locks in this house, trapped as they were. By extension, the picks were useless anyway - if none of the doors were pickable anyway, then having useless tools wasn’t exactly a drawback. However, it seemed to him that the lockpicks were helping his mind in some way, keeping him at ease (or as at ease as it was possible to be here), reminding him that there was always a way out.

He crouched on the ground a moment longer, staring at the useless prongs of metal still in his hands, then tested for any residual heat and stashed them back in his gloves. The support was still nice to have against his wrists, so he decided to hang onto them for the comfort they provided. Then, checking the corridor up and down once again for people who might have evaded his detection, he rose to his feet again and set off back down the corridor, heading for the grand staircase, his thoughts racing.

If he were to stand any chance of getting out of this place alive, it wasn’t feasible to continue sneaking around in the darkness, too afraid of making any sound to make significant progress. His lockpicks were useless now. He was almost helpless here. But…

The idea was distasteful to him, almost frightening. He _knew_ that at least one member of the party who were trapped in the house was actively hostile towards him; if Garrett didn’t handle this in the correct way, he could get hurt. He could be killed. He passed the place that earlier he had found smelled of blood and his stomach turned. Did he really want to get involved with people like this?

Did he really have a choice?

He approached his nest and entered, shrouding himself in sheets that still smelled like soap and sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the darkness in front of him. There really wasn’t any other answer to this problem, and he knew it. If he wanted to survive in this place, he had to find Corvo. Convince him to keep the more volatile members of the group off his back, and continue the investigations as part of a team.

It left him with a heaviness in his stomach, and a sour taste in his mouth.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning was a tense affair. Corvo had not bothered to wash his clothes again this morning like he had done the previous day, still drained of energy and willpower from the night before. He walked in late with a heaviness to his step, like his feet were weighed down by heavy iron manacles. He certainly felt a prisoner in this place - barred from leaving, barred from knowing the truth, barred from his own sense of safety.

The others sat around the table in their places as they had the day before looking quiet and withdrawn. Jacques looked thin, his wrinkles deep, his hand shaking as he poured himself coffee from the pot in the middle of the table. Lucy had dark circles beneath her eyes, which were bloodshot, standing out starkly from her skin, amplified by what was quite plainly a lack of sleep, a night full of anxiety and loss. Suleiman appeared to be the least affected of all of them, but even he was showing signs of instability. He turned to Corvo as he entered the room and shot him a weak nod. 

Corvo returned the gesture without bothering to smile. He felt _old._ Old like he’d aged several years in just a few hours. The last time he’d felt like this was when he’d discovered Emily hadn’t returned from the confines of Delilah’s curse. Although the emotional impact of Theo’s death hadn’t quite been the gut-punch he’d experienced with Emily’s state, it still unsettled him, partially because of the fact that he’d lost a close friend and advisor, the other because it made _him_ feel unsafe too.

All their worst suspicions had been confirmed.

A man did not simply fall onto a knife and get it lodged deep in the base of his skull, and he certainly did not then get up, wander to the grand staircase, and then fall down it.

This was a murder, and whoever had done the deed wanted to make it abundantly clear.

Hands shook as tea and coffee were poured. China rattled on china. Corvo did not look up from his own drink, now lukewarm as he had gotten so distracted and sidetracked in his own head that he had lost all track of time now, but he knew that the others would be looking at each other out of the corner of their eyes. He let several more moments pass, nursing what little warmth the cup had to offer into his hands, trying to glean _some_ form of comfort from it.

There was a cough.

Corvo let the person who had coughed wait for several more moments, just enough for discomfort, before looking up and meeting his gaze. Bevis sat directly opposite him, his mouth pursed, pulled tight as if his facial muscles were drawstrings, the wrinkles in his skin deep and unyielding. Before Bevis could say anything, however, Corvo allowed himself a little freedom and crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat and regarding Bevis as if he were something dirty, found on the bottom of his shoe. “Do you ever smile or have you forgotten how to?”

Bevis didn’t respond immediately, but took another sip of his tea. The tension in the ballroom increased dramatically. Some of the others shuffled in their seats and looked away in discomfort, but Corvo did not cede.

Moments passed. Then a response.

“One might consider it disrespectful to smile at a time like this, _Your Majesty._ One of your closest supervisors has just been murdered, perhaps you should show some respect. In addition, it is more than likely that there is a murderer in our midst - you should treat this with the weight it deserves.”

Rage flared in Corvo’s mind and the resulting adrenaline rush nearly resulted in a snarky reply or a threat. He glanced over at Lucy and saw her shaking her head slowly, her eyes dark. She was right; they couldn’t afford more arguments at a time like this, but the darker side of Corvo’s mind urged him to lash out. Instead, he made do with a scowl and a resigned sigh. “You obviously wanted to say something. Spit it out.”

“Oh, I have nothing to say. You know exactly what I’m thinking, and so does everyone else in this room.”

“Be straight with me, Bevis,” Corvo said, annoyed, “We can’t afford any more time spent bickering with each other. The sooner we learn how to work together, the sooner we can find a way out of this place.”

Bevis finished off the rest of his tea, then stood up to pour himself another glass. The sound of the grandfather clock in the corridor ticking seemed to become much louder as the room once again fell into tense silence. 

“Well, we--”

Lucy interrupted abruptly, obviously in an attempt to defuse the situation. She had always been the diplomat of the group. “The first thing we need to consider is who did this, and why.”

“It seems obvious to me,” Bevis said, irritated at the interruption, “that the only person who _could_ be responsible for this is the only person who was not present in the ballroom at the time of his death.”

“The man in black.” Jacques said, thoughtfully stroking the stubble that had already appeared on his chin over the last couple of days.

Corvo hated to admit it, but it was pretty damning in its own right. Garrett had been the only person who didn’t have a solid alibi for what he had been doing when Theo was murdered, and although Corvo knew in his stomach that Garrett would never do something like this, his brain told him otherwise. Surely they would know if someone else, someone not accounted for, was also resident in this house? The place was so heavily guarded. When Corvo had known Garrett, several years previously, he had been very disturbed at the prospect of death done by his own hands, even moreso perhaps than the prospect of Corvo’s… activities. He couldn’t have changed _that_ much, could he?

He didn’t like to consider it, but it was indeed a possibility. Two days ago when he had run into Garrett in the library, he had seemed so angry, so full of hate.

“If we don’t find him,” Bevis continued, breaking Corvo from his mental tangent, “he will continue to kill us. He will catch us when we’re asleep, when we’re alone, when we least expect it. Nobody will be safe.”

There were murmurs of agreement from around the table. Corvo felt the blood draining from his face. Although Theo’s death had shocked, angered and frightened him all at the same time, in his gut, he knew Garrett wasn’t responsible; if anything, he was in more danger than the rest of them. He knew he had to change tack, and quickly. Bevis was beginning to convince the other occupants of the house that Garrett was a threat, and that they had to hunt him down before he could do even more damage to their party, but couldn’t Corvo use that for his own gains?

He could manipulate this situation to suit himself.

“Alright,” Corvo finally said to the apparent surprise of Bevis, “I’ll help you look for him, but on one condition.”

“And what would that be?” Bevis asked, his head cocked.

“You don’t hurt him. You bring him directly to me, and you let me speak to him _alone.”_

“You really know him that well, huh?” Jindosh said, “You want to have a nice little private chat with him, when there’s a reasonable probability he’s just killing us off for fun?”

Corvo paused, noticing the ballroom had gone very quiet and very still. He needed to be honest with them - otherwise, it was likely this would end in a much worse situation for Garrett. “I do know him,” he admitted, “I met him, many years ago. I know he wouldn’t do something like this. I know that, deep down, he’s a good man, but he’s scared. I would like to try to talk to him. He could be a valuable ally; he was always very good at gathering information.”

Bevis pursed his lips again and stood up, leant heavily on his cane while observing Corvo carefully. “If you know him so well, then why hasn’t he already sought you out?”

Corvo faltered for a moment, trying to decide what to say, whether to lie or tell them the truth. Finally, after far too long, he settled on the truth, albeit a brief version of it. “I betrayed his trust. Although my intentions were good, I lied to him. We haven’t spoken in a long time.”

Jindosh raised his voice. “Logic dictates that, following on from the information you just gave us, he could be seeking revenge on you and your government. Wouldn’t that be a solid explanation for why we’re here? He could have been hired by some rebel group to kill us off one-by-one in here.”

It was certainly a possibility. Corvo hadn’t really considered that he might be seeking revenge, but someone like Garrett didn’t need to be paid off by rebel groups to put his life in danger for simple coin. He looked at the others, who were staring intently at him. This felt more like a trial that anything else, like _he_ was undergoing interrogation for something Garrett may or may not have done.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” Corvo said, staring Bevis down, “Just let me speak to him alone if you do find him. I feel you’ll be lucky to do that, though. If he doesn’t want to be seen, he won’t be seen. He’s like a ghost.”

It was true. Garrett felt more of a spectre than another human being, one who could disappear at will, one who haunted the cities and buildings he occupied; he had certainly been haunting Corvo for all these years, a shadow of “what if”.

“Fine,” Bevis said, “you have my word. If we’re able to get any information out of him, it’ll be useful. If he _is_ part of a rebel group, then we can use that valuable information for other purposes. If he’s responsible for Theo’s death though,” a pause as Bevis’ eyes turned dark, “then may the Outsider help him.”

And with that, he turned and left.

There was more tense silence. Corvo didn’t bother to leave the room, but instead sat back down at his place at the table, refilling his mug, resisting the urge to augment the coffee with whiskey. As dire as the situation seemed to him, he was still a leader; he still had to put on a facade for the others. He had to appear that his nerves weren’t slowly fraying under the pressure of keeping the others calm, keeping Garrett alive, and finding his own way out of this place.

He was sure Emily would have had a solution. She had the brains of her mother, that natural inclination to solve problems and the knowledge to boot. Corvo had none of that.

The others filed out of the room in dribs and drabs over the following hour. Corvo attempted to feed himself a slice of toast but failed, leaving it half-eaten on his plate until the butter congealed and the bread became chewy and cold. He sat there with his forehead resting on the palm of his hand, leaning over the table in a kind of half-trance, the product of many nights of sleep deprivation, feeling slightly disconnected from himself, and when he next came to, the clock in the corridor indicated that an hour had already passed.

He wondered why he cared. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be.

Somehow, Lucy had held on, and now only he and she occupied the grand ballroom. He looked up at her after a time, offering up a half-hearted smile, at which she frowned.

“I know you’re worried, but I have some more information for you. It’s not much but I feel it might be of some significance.”

Corvo pulled himself out of his stupor and forced himself to sit up straight, ignoring the exhaustion pulling at his mind. “Oh?”

“I didn’t sleep last night,” she admitted, eyes downcast, “but I went to investigate this morning. I don’t really know what I was looking for; I guess I was just searching for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Is there such a thing as ‘the ordinary’ in this place?”

She snorted lightly through her nose and smiled wryly. “No, I guess not, but you know what I mean. Anything that deviates from normal… patterns. Anyway, I tried to get into the ballroom this morning, before the lights came on, and I found the doors were locked, so I went to search the rest of the house instead. When I came back, after the lights had come on, they had been unlocked again, and on the table, I found _this.”_

She held up a small, white card, roughly the size of Corvo’s hand. It was pristine: sharp edges, sharper printed words, unmarred by smudges or creases. It looked like it had been freshly printed and handled very carefully, and there were no discernable fingerprints. He took a moment, squinting at the small print on one side, struggling to read it.

The title, _The Roving Feet_ headed the card in larger, block capitals, followed beneath by a paragraph in sentence case of the stricture that had been chanted last night just beyond the walls of the garden.

_"Restrict roving feet that love to trespass. They pay no heed to the boundary stones of other men's fields. They wander into foreign lands, only to return with their soles blackened by iniquity. Where have you strayed that destruction now comes behind you? Would you walk across burning coals or broken glass? Then why do you prowl into the homes of the honest, or into the dens of hidden things, for the result is the same. You will fall into the Void! Instead, rest your feet on a firm foundation so that when the winds of the Outsider shriek against you, you will stand firm and not be overthrown."_

He turned it over in his fingers, studying the other side of the card. Another line, once again in printed block capitals, stark against the white of the card. _Theo Camberwell._

“Smells like the Abbey,” Corvo finally said, after reading it and re-reading it several times over, “You think they might be behind this?”

“I’m almost certain,” Lucy said, confirming his suspicions, “it’s definitely something they’d do to make a point, something so over-the-top that it’ll scare all their opponents into submission.”

“They don’t _have_ any opponents,” Corvo said, rubbing his hand over the lower half of his face, still staring at the card, “I’ve given them almost everything they could possibly need, within reason. Why make such an elaborate show of killing off me and my government one-by-one?”

“I have no idea,” Lucy admitted, nonplussed, a deeply concerned expression written on her face, “And it’s not like their leader’s a sociopath or anything. Roman always seemed pretty decent to me. A bit devout, but he did a lot for the people of Dunwall.”

“He was always asking for more money for social schemes,” Corvo said, “Church activities, soup kitchens, neighbourhood watch, all that sort of thing.”

Lucy hummed beneath her breath and said nothing more; what point was there in speculating? Whoever had orchestrated this was clearly well beyond their reach now, but it threw up more questions than it answered. Had there been some kind of takeover by one of the other high-ranking Overseers? Maybe a sect from Karnaca who wanted to exact revenge on Dunwall for the ruin they’d been left in with the fall of the Empire?

Or maybe, even, it was someone else, using the image of The Abbey as a scapegoat, as a mask to hide behind while they punished Corvo in whichever way they felt necessary.

It was deeply troubling to Corvo. A grab for power at this point would be devastating for the Empire he had only just begun to stabilise, but then again, wasn’t this the perfect time to do it?

And what did Garrett have to do with all of this?

“One more thing,” Lucy said as Corvo turned and began to head for the double doors at the very end of the room, “I heard footsteps last night while I was up. They sounded too light to be a man’s, but whoever it was could also have been trying to lighten their footfall to avoid detection.”

It was probably Garrett. It sounded entirely within character for him to be skulking around the house late at night, when everyone else was in bed.

“Thank you for telling me, Lucy,” Corvo said with a weak smile, “I’ll try and find out who it is.”

He didn’t want to have to think about this any more. He needed to rest. He bid his farewell to Lucy, whom he left standing in the ballroom by herself, then headed across the hallway for the grand staircase, but something caught his eye.

He turned abruptly at the little red flash of light glinting from the alcove in the hallway. As Corvo drew in nearer, it blinked again, and then again several seconds later. He distanced himself from the Clockwork Soldier, supposedly deactivated, towering in front of him, and watched carefully.

Then it happened again.

Behind the long, beaky nose of the automaton, inside the deep ‘eye sockets’ and behind the cameras, there blinked a single, red light. On, then off, then on again. Corvo took a step back instinctively, remembering the difficulty with which he had dispatched them at the Clockwork Mansion. This was not a fight he wanted to get into.

The image of the blinking light sent shivers down his spine and a nasty, hollow feeling in his guts. The previous day, when the Clockwork had first turned up in the alcove, he had hoped that it was simply for intimidation, a scare tactic that would force Corvo into doing whatever they… whoever ‘they’ were, wanted him to do. The little blinking light disproved this. It almost seemed like it was active. Like it was watching him and the others, observing them, cold and calculating, waiting to strike.

Corvo now didn’t doubt that this machine was there to provide hard power for his captors. This wasn’t simply about intimidation. He didn’t remember the presence of a flashing light behind the cameras of the Clockworks, but his mind had been so distracted at that time of his life that he hadn’t even thought to carefully study these machines. _That_ had been a mistake.

“Jindosh!” Corvo roared, taking yet another step back from the machine for safety. “Jindosh!”

It took far too long for Jindosh to poke his head around the banister at the top of the stairs. He eyed Corvo with a cold, hard stare, and fixed his mouth in a hard line. “What is it now?”

“If you have nothing to do with this Clockwork, then why is its eye blinking?”

Jindosh went noticeably pale and he hurried down the stairs, joining Corvo by the foot of the Clockwork, studying it carefully. Jindosh was much shorter in stature than Corvo, leading him to wonder how he managed to engineer such tall beasts from his height. He wondered if maybe he should pick Jindosh up so he could get a better look at the eye socket.

“This was not part of my design,” Jindosh finally said after an extended pause, “at least, I think it wasn’t. It would make little sense to include any sort of indicator as to what the Clockwork is doing at any given time, especially if it’s recording video. If it wanted to sneak up on someone in the dark, a red flashing light would give the game away, no?”

“I always got the impression these were built more for brute force than stealth.”

“They are, my dear man. But to me, flashing lights just mean more money, more time, more opportunity for things to go wrong, and a higher risk of detection.” Another pause as he circled the machine once more, to Corvo’s confusion, risking his life by being within striking distance. “No, this automaton has been modified, and it’s not an approved modification either.”

“How do you know that?” Corvo asked him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, “I thought you’d forgotten everything.”

Jindosh seemed flustered. “I’m only following logical lines of thought. I may be an _idiot_ now, but I still know that the higher the cost of manufacture, the lower the profit for me.”

“Yes, because you’re _entirely_ motivated by profit…”

“Actually, I’m not, I--”

Corvo scoffed and folded his arms across his chest. “It was sarcasm. Forget it. So you’re _sure_ you have nothing to do with all this?”

“Positive,” Jindosh said, looking somewhat bewildered, “I’m every bit as perplexed as you.”

Something told Corvo that Jindosh’s words were genuine. Although it would make a lot more sense if the man _did_ have something to do with the situation they had found themselves in, it appeared that he probably didn’t. He nodded once at Jindosh, then left him in the corridor, studying the machine silently, then climbed the stairs and headed for his room.

* * *

Corvo had been asleep for some time when the knock on the door woke him. It had been something of a miracle that he’d been able to drift off to sleep as it was, even though it was fitful and nightmares plagued him and woke him repeatedly, yet when he was jolted back to the land of day by the knock, somehow he felt even worse. It might have been the months of sleep deprivation he’d endured recently that had suddenly caught up on him, or the stress of his imprisonment in the house, or any other number of possible factors, but even lifting his head from the pillow left him dizzy and confused.

“Come in,” he said, forcing himself into a sitting position on the bed, trying to make himself look like he hadn’t just been asleep but failing miserably. Suleiman poked his head around the door after a moment, his spectacles glinting in the early afternoon light and his hair wild as ever. His eyes flickered around the room for a moment before he found Corvo sitting on the bed and he shot him a smile.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“Of course not,” Corvo said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair tucked neatly beneath the desk, and Suleiman nodded in thanks and sat down, resting his arm on the desk, facing Corvo.

When he spoke, he sounded tired and old. Corvo didn’t know Suleiman’s age, but judging by his looks, he was well into his fifties by now, maybe approaching his sixties, but he hadn’t shown his age before. When he talked about his research, which was admittedly all the time if one allowed him to, he was animated, lively, excited. That excitement and vigour seemed to take away age’s effects on him, so seeing him act like this was especially unnerving. Corvo could see him trying to put on a smile, to keep Corvo calm, but it didn’t work.

“I was gifted with a vision,” Suleiman said after a time, “If you could call it a gift.”

“Oh?” Corvo asked, his head still fuzzy with sleep, “Could you share it with me?”

Suleiman nodded, but he looked like he was building himself up for something big, like he was nervous to admit the contents of the vision. Finally, he appeared to steel himself, grabbed the edges of the chair and continued with a slow, measured voice.

“In the vision, I died,” Suleiman said simply, “I was murdered and I believe it happened in this house. Our Lord The Outsider has granted me an understanding of the future, and The Outsider does not lie.”

Corvo found himself troubled by this news. “In all truth, I don’t trust the bastard. He’s probably playing with your emotions for the fun of it. Don’t let him upset you.”

“Perhaps not,” Suleiman said, his voice grave, “But if it is to happen, say tonight, I wanted to tell you something important, something about your daughter.”

Corvo sat up straighter now, the exhaustion now gone with the mention of Emily. “What? What is it?”

There was another moment as Suleiman looked around the room carefully, looking slightly unhinged for a moment. “I suspect we are being watched so I will keep it brief. You got my note?”

Corvo nodded. “Yes.”

“You destroyed it?”

Another nod of confirmation.

“Good. Then I should let you know this: you will not be able to simply walk into the place and take what you need. It will be heavily guarded. You will need to find some other way in, but you will do it.”

Corvo paused and looked at Suleiman flatly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Suleiman smiled weakly and held his hand out to shake Corvo’s. “You will do, when the time comes. You will know what to do, but you will have to do it without me, I fear.”

Corvo took Suleiman’s hand and shook it, and he felt something cold and hard in his palm. He looked up, confused, but Suleiman held onto the handshake far longer than felt natural and stared at him, shaking his head only a little, his eyes hard. Then, he withdrew his hand, ensuring Corvo held onto the object, nodded, and then left the room again.

Something about Suleiman had always felt to Corvo like he knew more than anyone else around him, like he was privy to some worldly secret that everyone else had to work out by themselves. He seemed to exude an aura of _knowledge,_ one that seemed to elevate him and distinguish him from the rest of the crowds. Corvo wasn’t sure whether that fact reassured him or made him feel uncomfortable and small. Was it possible that Suleiman had been blessed with some kind of divine knowledge from the Outsider, or did he just read into things a lot more deeply than anyone else, were his logical faculties much stronger than theirs?

If that was the case, then surely Jindosh would make Corvo feel the same way as Suleiman did. That wasn’t the case. It was obvious that Jindosh was extraordinarily intelligent, but he didn’t feel… _wise._

It was because of this that what Suleiman had said to Corvo had disturbed him so deeply. The man had had a vision, one that in any other member of the population could simply be dismissed as falsehoods or madness, but deep down, Corvo knew Suleiman was neither a liar nor a madman.

No, he must be some kind of seer.

He laid back down on the bed, rolling onto his stomach and sliding the object that Suleiman had slipped him beneath the pillow, looking as natural as possible. Corvo had been tipped off that there were people patrolling the other side of the garden wall, and judging by the way Suleiman acted, there was some way that people knew what was going on inside the house too. Corvo didn’t want to test that theory. He rolled onto his side again, keeping one hand on the object beneath the pillow and investigated it with his hands. It was circular and flat, like some kind of disc, clearly metal judging by the texture, and patterned in some way. There was a smooth bump in the middle of the disc, one that was hard and slightly warmer than the metal, and if Corvo held his breath, pressed his ear into the pillow above the object, he could hear it singing to him.

Work of the Outsider.

He couldn’t leave this thing alone in his room like he had left the knife in his room. 

He was being watched.

He slid the disc beneath the wrap on his Marked hand as a stopgap, knowing that some time soon, he’d have to find a more secure place for it on his person. Some way of hanging it around his neck would be appreciated, so it wouldn’t slide out from beneath the fabric. He toyed with the disc at the palm of his hand lightly as he tried to get back to sleep, but found himself tossing and turning, his mind now distracted by what Suleiman had said to him. Would he ever get the opportunity to solve this mystery, or would he too fall to the same fate as Theo?

* * *

The Clockwork Soldier made Corvo deeply uncomfortable whenever he passed it in the corridor, so he had found himself confined to wherever he could walk without having to see it. Jindosh had not found any clues as to where it had come from or the origin of the red light that flashed in its eye socket, so now, deeply discouraged, he had returned to the ballroom where he sat brooding as Corvo walked in.

It was late afternoon. The ballroom doors had long since reopened, leaving warm platters of food on the grand table, each place set with silverware, plates, serving utensils. Corvo had noticed that they had fallen into a pattern of sitting at the same place every time they came to eat, and the loss of Theo had left an empty chair at the table, his lack of presence strangely sobering. Corvo sat in his usual spot at the side of the hall where the windows would have been if there were any on the ground floor, and poured himself a glass of whiskey, helping himself to an ice cube from the rapidly melting crystal bowl in the middle of the table. He sat there for some time, silently searching his mind for any possible ways out that they might have missed, thinking about anyone who may have been acting suspiciously over the past few days.

Bevis and Jacques appeared after some time. They had, it seemed, spent their entire day searching the house for people who might have snuck in and murdered Theo, looking for secret rooms or passageways in or out, looking for Garrett. Judging by their facial expressions, they had not found him, which in some ways was relieving to Corvo. Wherever Garrett had hidden himself, it was brilliant to evade the other house occupants for this long.

Bevis sat down at his place with a sour expression on his face and helped himself to meat from one of the platters in the middle of the table. It was obvious to Corvo that he was avoiding his gaze; the man had been so sure at the beginning of the day that he’d be able to track Garrett down and now he’d turned up several hours later, empty-handed. Jacques looked less frustrated, although he still seemed jumpy.

“We need to find who did this as soon as possible,” Jacques finally said after some silence as Lucy walked in, looking over at Corvo, “And the sooner we do, the sooner we can feel safe.”

It was true - Corvo felt unsafe with an unspecified killer running around in their midst. The thought that someone would be able to ambush a man like Theo, jam a knife into the back of his neck and then throw him down the stairs was disturbing. 

Giovanni walked in now with Suleiman. Corvo had not heard much from Giovanni lately, although it was very possible that he was still intensely distracted by the disappearance of his wife. He had not said anything to Corvo in at least a day now, and it seemed that he had been hiding in his room, staying away from everyone else. He looked pale and drawn, his eyes slightly wild.

There was a silence as many of the people around the table began to eat. Corvo, still wondering about what had happened to his Void powers, idly tried to activate Dark Vision while ignoring the food in front of him. There were small changes in his vision, moments where the world shifted to a dark purple hue and he heard the customary faint beating that came with the power, but he gleaned nothing of importance. Often, when he tried to activate it, it was less than a fraction of a second before his vision reverted back to normal, like something was blocking him.

“We have to consider the possibility,” Lucy said, “That we might have more than one killer on our hands.”

She made a lot of sense. Giovanni looked at her with a horrified expression on his face, then looked down again quickly.

“You’re saying that someone could have stabbed him and then someone else might have thrown his body down the stairs?” Bevis said, twirling his fork between his fingers.

“Exactly,” Lucy said, “Wouldn’t it be easier to convince us that there’s only one killer, and when we think we have them, someone else dies? If someone has a point to make regarding all this, then that would mask their activities even better.”

Bevis cleared his throat and studied the bottom of his glass intently, swirling it around and then pouring himself some whiskey as Corvo had done. “You do realise,” he began, “You were the one who went to search for him yesterday before he turned up dead?”

Lucy turned pale and stuttered. “I didn’t… No, not like that. You really think I’d have gone up and stabbed him after you sent me up there? That’s absurd!”

Bevis shrugged and began to drink the glass of whiskey that he’d poured earlier. “It’s not safe to consider anyone innocent in here.”

“And who would have pushed him down the stairs?” She countered, her voice getting slightly louder as she became defensive, “We sent out a search party looking for him! Anyone could have done it. Maybe even you.”

 _“Me?”_ He said, his voice slightly amused, “What could I possibly get out of murdering Theo? You think I’m strong enough to kill a man like that?”

There was a silence. Bevis _was_ weak - his age had clearly taken a serious toll on him and he relied on a cane to move himself from room-to-room, and in doing so he was still loud on his feet. 

“Murders can be committed in more than one way,” she said, “You could be funding whichever group has decided to lock us up in here. You _are_ the richest man in Dunwall.”

Bevis laughed harshly. “I’m old. I have all the worldly pleasures I could possibly need, and I have no interest in leadership. Why would I spend so much of my wealth on locking powerful men like Corvo up and paying off the Abbey to make it seem like they’re doing it?”

There was another strained silence. Then Bevis continued, shaking his glass of whiskey, his voice now raised as he became frustrated.

“You are _distracting_ us from the problem that there is a _man in black_ roaming these hallways unchecked. We don’t know _anything_ about him or where he comes from, aside from the fact that our _dear Emperor Corvo_ here upset him deeply nearly a decade ago. And you wonder why anyone could _possibly_ have a grudge against you or want to destroy your government.” He slammed the empty whiskey glass down on the table and stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and began to pace distractedly.

Corvo was beginning to get tired of this. He wondered if anyone would really care if Bevis happened to choke to death on his own rhetoric. Indeed, he had got the impression that Lucy was tired of this too - Corvo wanted to find Garrett just as much as anyone else, but nobody seemed to want to listen to him.

He flared Dark Vision again idly, hoping for some kind of distraction from Bevis’ rantings, and spotted something odd. Someone was crouched in the vent in the top corner of the room, listening, watching.

The same vent that Garrett had emerged from several days earlier.

Corvo averted his eyes back towards Bevis again, knowing that if he continued to stare, Garrett would notice and it would spook him. Instead, he watched the thief through the corner of his eye, huddled up quietly. Corvo couldn’t really blame him; solitary as he was, Garrett was bound to desire access to information that the rest of the party were sharing. And if Garrett hadn’t managed to find a way out yet…

“Are you listening, Corvo?” Bevis said, waving his hand in front of Corvo’s face insistently, “Are you hearing me?”

 _“Yes, Bevis, I’m hearing you,”_ He said, “You have an issue, you want to correct it.”

“It’s much more than that, it’s--” He coughed, clutching onto his cane for a moment and then tried again, “It’s about keeping us safe. It’s about finding a way out. It’s about--” His impassioned speech was interrupted once again by a series of hacking coughs.

Corvo saw Jacques and Giovanni eyeing each other at the side of the table, and he folded his arms across his chest, increasingly annoyed. “It’s about what?”

Bevis was still coughing, violent, ragged spasms that wracked his body. It didn’t seem too out of the ordinary for a man as old as Bevis to be so plagued by respiratory difficulty, but this…

Several seconds passed, and Bevis was still coughing. His skin had turned pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he was doubled over in pain. Jacques was already on his feet, heading to the elderly man, trying to help him back to his seat, but suddenly there was a choking noise and Bevis vomited bright red blood onto the floor.

Jacques made a disgusted noise and backed off quickly, but the disgust quickly turned to panic. The others jumped up from the table and ran to aid Bevis, trying now to pick him up off the floor, asking him what was wrong, begging him for information on how to help him, but Bevis had long since lost control of his vocal cords and his ranting had turned into a cacophony of coughing, spluttering, retching.

“Poison?” Corvo asked, hurrying to join Jacques on the floor with Bevis, helping him straighten the man out, lying him on his side so he wouldn’t choke. There was a low hum and a nod in response.

By now, Bevis wasn’t breathing anymore. It seemed that all of his muscles, his lungs, his throat, had frozen into position and he was convulsing on the floor, unable to draw breath. Blood poured from his nose and the corner of his eyes as he shuddered beneath Corvo’s hands, no longer crying out in pain but terrifyingly silent, each twitch and convulsion drawing more precious air from his body. His skin was no longer pale, but blue, mottled, purple in places, his hands balled up into tight, involuntary fists as if he were somehow trying to fight his way back to life.

Corvo had never seen someone hang on so furiously to their last moments of life like this, but sure enough, as more and more time passed, as Lucy cried in the corner, as the grandfather clock in the corridor sang eight haunting chimes, as the last bubbles of blood exploded from Bevis’ mouth and nose, he fell still. Silent. 

Truly silent.

There was a moment of cursed stillness. Corvo turned his head towards where he had seen Garrett hiding not minutes ago, flared Dark Vision, and saw the wisps of yellow life-smoke get up, turn, and run off into the darkness of the house.

And then the cannons sounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is a few weeks late, and thank you for your patience. I hope you're all still enjoying this story, and next chapter is pretty much pure fluff so you have that to look forward to :P


	10. Day 2, The Rampant Hunger: Part 2

The sound of screaming combined with the _boom_ of the cannons, the faint chanting outside and the terror of the situation that Garrett had now found himself plunged into had stirred something deep inside him that he hadn’t had to endure in weeks now. Plenty of time had elapsed since he escaped the City on the little fishing boat with Bruno, Cam and Cooper, but not long enough for him to forget the pounding agony of his migraines.

He clasped his head in his hand as he scurried out from the vent that he had been watching Corvo and the other guests in, physically attempting to block out the buzzing flashes of colour that had now exploded across his vision like a spilled pot of boiling water by jamming the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning softly beneath his breath, screwing his eyes tight shut and reopening them to no avail. He felt the warm flush as it descended on him head-first, running over him with agonising sureness, leaving him doubled over next to a wall the moment he left the vent, struggling to pull at the laces on his gloves, pulling down his hood and ripping off his mask to allow fresh, cool air to his neck.

The past few days had, unfortunately, been particularly warm for this time of year. Granted, the evening before had left the house and its occupants beset with torrential rain, but it seemed that this was an exception more than a rule; merely a reaction to the warm weather, a clash of warm front on cold front that left a kind of feeling, a pressure that weighed on Garrett’s head and alerted him to changes in the weather.

Maybe it had been the recent, sudden changes in weather and temperature that had prompted a migraine like this. Maybe it was the stress of watching an old man vomit blood and die in an agonised frenzy. Maybe it was even the thought that he was trapped with no discernible way out.

But he knew he was fooling himself by trying to make excuses.

When he travelled to the Queen of Beggars on the day that his clocktower home had been burned down, she had said something to him that still hadn’t quite left him, that still floated in and out of his thoughts during the idle moments: _“You and this City are truly connected now. You feel her pain. Does she feel yours?”_

Something _bad_ had to be happening in his home city. He had found that, as he sailed away from the City, the agony of his migraine had slowly but surely ebbed away with every wave that washed at the sides of the boat, and since, he had been comparatively pain-free. The sudden resurgence of his migraines now so many miles from the City concerned him deeply. If he could feel it here, then what did it tell him about its state? He mentally kicked himself for not sending a message to Basso in some way or another, but what else could he have done? He had no access to pigeons or ravens. All traffic in and out of the City had been stopped. There was no way he’d be able to reliably and safely get a message to his friend.

The funny thing was, he felt no _real, conscious_ emotional connection to the City, so why would he care otherwise what was happening to it, short of Basso and Erin’s safety? His reputation had been ruined. Most of his clients were either dead or had escaped to safer places. There was nothing left for him there.

Apart from his migraines.

It was ironic, really.

He laughed harshly to himself and pushed on, gritting his teeth against the pain and feeling his way along the wall in defiance of the rapidly-expanding loss of vision. Sweat began to form under his leathers, making him uncomfortably damp and warm despite his now-uncovered head and loosened bracers. He had to get back to his nest or he’d be found.

It seemed obvious to him, as he stumbled down the stairs hanging onto the railing for dear life, that he was now in _serious_ trouble. The old man, the one who had just died as Garrett watched from the vent in the ballroom, had been deeply suspicious of him, had despised his presence (or lack thereof) and had been continually pushing the other guests to find him over the two days past. The fact that he had died in such a troubling way at this specific time increased Garrett’s worry to dizzying levels - it would seem to the others that he had wanted to dispatch the old man to prevent him from riling them up and turning them against him.

He wondered what Corvo thought; whether he still believed in Garrett’s innocence, or if the coincidence of the timing of the old man’s death would make Corvo equally as distrustful of Garrett as the man had been.

His foot slipped over the lip of a stair and Garrett cursed to himself, once again attempting to rub the blinding colour from his eyes, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes to try to quell the pain. The migraine thumped rhythmically, constricting around his head as he continued onwards, shielding his eyes from the artificial lights shining up above him in the stairwell, lights that had not hurt him this much when he had ascended the stairs earlier. The back of his right eye pulsed with pain and energy.

Eventually, he found his way back to his nest and wrenched the door open, collapsing into the cool darkness of the room, closing the door as quietly as he could possibly manage in fear of aggravating the pain, crawling his way behind the shelves of fresh linen and curling up in a tight ball. He unclipped the gloves and pulled them off along with his cloak and hood, exposing more of his skin to the air with a groan of something that was half satisfaction and half pain, leaving the clothing balled up in the corner of the room. With his eyes still shut tight despite the lack of light, he brushed the scar, the indent in the palm of his left hand and massaged it absent-mindedly. It was a habit he’d picked up during his off-hours over the past few years, although he’d had precious few of those lately.

He knew that he’d be unable to sleep, so instead he zoned out, staring off into the distance, riding out the pain best he could. 

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Corvo knew now that they were in deep shit.

He stared at Bevis now lying dead on the floor, his blood sprayed across the wooden floorboards, Jacques’ shoes, and Corvo’s shaking hands. It had long since stopped flowing, and Corvo had simply allowed the sound of the cannon, the chanting and the screaming wash over him in what felt like hollow apathy. Many of the five other people left in the room panicked, shouting and screaming and crying, but Corvo sat back on his knees, resisting the urge to fold over on himself and lie there and wait to die.

What could these people possibly want? What point did they have to make? Why had he not seen something like this coming earlier? He half-listened to the chanting coming from outside the house, feeling slightly disconnected, staring blankly off into the distance somewhere far beyond the confines of the house.

_"Restrict the Rampant Hunger or the intemperate will rise up among you like a virulent swarm, devouring everything wherever they go, even filth.”_

Corvo stared down at Bevis’ lifeless eyes as he lay crumpled, useless and dead by Corvo’s knees. He heard, very acutely, the “splack” of Jacques’ feet in the blood quickly coagulating on the floor of the ballroom. He resisted the urge to vomit and closed his eyes in resignation.

_“For what goes into your body, poisons you, and if you eat filth, then filth is what you will vomit up.”_

Corvo felt something stir in him, something that he hadn’t felt since he last drove his sword through someone’s body and raised his hands, hands that no longer felt like his, up and stared at them quietly. He knew the next line of the chant, and he mouthed it silently with the men on the other side of the wall.

_“Surely the glutton will sell away birthright, family, and friends for a morsel of meat."_

Somehow, somewhere, he heard the quiet laugh of a Leviathan God. Although the Outsider’s existence had been continually and fervently denied by the Abbey of the Everyman, Corvo couldn’t help but admit this had been a victory for him. Bevis had made his fortune through whaling and selling off their oil - if anything, this had been a victory for the Outsider, if a little one. Privately, Corvo was glad too, and considered it a victory for Dunwall. Bevis was known for forcing his employees into poor working conditions, paying them little, and treating them with no respect. In addition, he tended to hoard his profits, and contributed next to nothing to the Dunwall economy. With luck, those injustices would now be corrected.

For him, personally? The death was deeply worrying. It prompted panic. It was a sign that they were indeed being murdered one-by-one, and there was no indication as to who would be next, or when. Corvo wondered how long it would be before it was him lying dead on the floor, and what then? Who would take care of Emily? Who would make sure Garrett got out alive?

Someone was weeping somewhere in the room but Corvo cared not to check who it was. There was no point in jumping up and searching for the murderer now - whoever it was had obviously accessed the ballroom before anyone else had entered and dropped something in Bevis’ glass. Corvo vividly remembered now that Bevis had studied something in the bottom of his cup before filling it with whiskey, from the same bottle that Corvo had drunk from. Maybe he had just assumed that it was water that remained in the cup from when it was last washed. Maybe he had simply thought nothing of it.

Corvo sighed deeply and felt himself rising to his feet. He was acutely aware that Jacques was staring at him from across Bevis’ body, but he ignored it and turned around.

Jindosh approached him, his face pale, his eyes wide. “It must have been the man in black,” he said hurriedly, “He wanted to shut Bevis up, to stop him rallying us against him. We _have_ to find him. We have to stop him.”

Corvo simply lifted a bloodied hand and brushed Jindosh out of the way, leaving him standing in the middle of the ballroom with a stunned expression on his face, his mouth hanging half-open. He began to pace up and down the room silently, balling his hands up into fists and then relaxing them over and over and over, trying to reign his emotions back in before he exploded and backhanded someone.

_Why? Why was this happening to him?_

He felt no pity for Bevis, but he did for Lucy who was sat in her seat, crying to herself, rocking back and forth. He redirected himself from the rage and despair he felt at the situation and went to her, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. She met it with her own and continued to cry, covering her face with her other palm, and when she finally did look up at Corvo, he found her face was red and puffy from the tears.

Unable to muster a smile of his own, he grimaced at her and squeezed her shoulder, finally feeling stable enough to begin to do something about the mess in the room. He gave Jacques a look, then glanced to the body lying on the floor. He knew what to do.

They pulled the tablecloth off the grand table and wrapped Bevis’ body in it, taking care not to allow more blood to spill onto the floor. Glancing back, Corvo found Giovanni stood, white as a sheet, in the corner of the room, and motioned to the mess on the floor, asking him to clean it up. Then, without waiting for an answer, Corvo helped Jacques heft the body over his shoulder and transport it down to the cellar, where Bevis joined Theo lying on the floor, swaddled in a cloth shroud dappled with blood.

Corvo didn’t dare return to the ballroom for any extended period of time, marching in only to grab the bottle of whiskey, still mostly full, off the table, pointedly ignoring Jindosh’s protests and Giovanni’s questions. Suleiman was distracting himself by scrubbing the floor, his sleeves rolled up to preserve his shirt, working at the floorboards with a vacant expression on his face. Lucy sat still at the table with her head in her hands.

Corvo pulled the lid off the whiskey bottle with his mouth and blew it out from in-between his teeth, the cork bouncing across the floor where it hit the skirting board, rebounded, and then rolled to a stop. Walking briskly and with purpose out of the room, he took a deep swig directly from the bottle and headed for the library, leaving the ballroom in a tense, mournful silence.

* * *

Time no longer felt real to Corvo.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting in the library, staring at the shelves of books in front of him, occasionally swigging from the bottle on the table by his chair, but by now it didn’t hurt as much, and that was what counted. The room was spinning slowly around him, his head heavy although he knew trying to sleep would be futile, and his body felt pleasantly numb. The lights hadn’t gone out yet, meaning it was still early in the evening, yet nobody had come to find him. That was a good thing; he needed to be alone right now.

His hands were still dirty, covered in the dried mess of blood from Bevis’ unpleasant death. It caked beneath his fingernails in dark red half-moons, sat in the cracks in his skin and the lines in his palms; in some places it had flaked off naturally, leaving his hands a mosaic of red-on-peach.

He groaned as he got to his feet, steadying himself against the wing-backed chair and wobbled for a moment. His head was still spinning, the room tilting around him and threatening to throw him off-balance, but he stopped for a moment, concentrating on maintaining his balance. Minutes later, satisfied now that, should he move, he would remain upright, he picked the half-empty bottle of whiskey up off the table and carried it downstairs to the scullery where he had spent the morning of the previous day washing his clothes.

It seemed to him that everyone had vacated the ground floor of the house, maybe retiring to their rooms in a bid to stay away from the scenes of two unpleasant and untimely deaths. It made perfect sense to him, but the thought of staying cooped up in his room for a single moment longer made him grumpy so he opted instead to wander the corridors of the lower floor like a lost ghost.

The Clockwork Soldier stood in the alcove beneath the stairs, that red light still flashing from behind its camera in the hollow eye-socket. The alcohol had removed his fear by now, and he kicked it in the shin, unconcerned by the possibility that it might spring to life and attack him. A moment passed as he stepped back, unsure of what he expected to happen next, but the mechanical beast did not move; the light continued to blink on, then off, then on, then off, and it remained stock-still. Corvo scoffed, then proceeded to the scullery on the left-hand side of the corridor.

The water ran cold over his hands as he scrubbed the blood off, watching the suds, stained red as they washed into the basin then swirled down the drain. Minutes passed. He dug beneath his nails, fishing out the last of the dirt that remained there, interlocked his fingers to clean the spaces between them, and washed his wrists and forearms for good measure. The smell of soap wasn’t unpleasant - far from it, in fact - but he couldn’t help but feel that he could still smell the faintest traces of blood, iron, on his hands as he withdrew them, now numb from the freezing water and dried them off on a hand-towel.

Now what?

He still felt unable to face the prospect of returning to his room, the ballroom or the library. The thought made his stomach churn, so he turned around and wobbled to the door, hanging onto the frame to regain his balance. The lights were still on, and somewhere in the house he heard a chime, indicating a half-hour. Maybe half-ten? There wasn’t long left before they’d all be plunged into darkness.

He wandered the corridors aimlessly, still swigging from the whiskey bottle when it began to seem like he was _feeling_ too much. Idly, he dipped in and out of rooms, investigating what took his notice, but not to the extent that he’d find anything new.

He needed _something,_ but he wasn’t sure what. Something deep in his psyche was calling out to him, asking him for something, but it wasn’t clear or specific. “What do you need?” he whispered to himself as he stumbled along, trailing his hands across the walls. There was no response.

As he continued to walk, the door to the garden drew closer. Although it was tempting to spend time in the warm summer night by himself, he felt unnerved at the idea of other, unknown people standing just beyond the wall, so instead he continued on past the door, and opened another one, a small door painted white, crammed into the corner of the house like it was trying to hide something. Corvo absentmindedly swung the door open, stood for a moment breathing in the smell of fresh linen, then turned to leave.

Something caught his eye. He stopped. Turned.

Something was glinting in the darkness of the laundry room. It was faint - Corvo shouldn’t have been able to see it in the darkness, but surely enough, there it was. Suddenly apprehensive, he picked his way across the laundry room, avoiding walking into the number of freestanding shelves that stood proudly in the cramped room, and approached the glinting thing that he had noticed.

Not a _thing. Things._ A pair of mismatched eyes, staring at him out of the darkness.

A knot formed in Corvo’s stomach, but it felt muted, crushed by the whiskey. There was only one person in this house who would hide in a place like this. The mismatched eyes were still something of a shock to Corvo - he had known Garrett previously to have (matching) dark brown eyes - and he suppressed a start as he realised who was actually watching him out of the darkness.

He wasn’t _angry_ like he had been before. That came as a surprise. Garrett had made it abundantly clear that he hadn’t wanted Corvo anywhere near him, but now he was making no move to get him out of his sanctuary. He wasn’t even making any particular attempt to hide, either.

Really, that left only one explanation: Garrett was incapacitated in some way, shape or form, and the last thing he’d want would be to deal with Corvo right now.

“Oh. Hello.” Corvo said, his brain having finally processed Garrett’s presence. He stood there awkwardly in the dark, unsure of what to do next, whether to wait for a response or simply to leave.

Moments passed. Garrett continued to stare at him, silent. Corvo picked a fresh linen set of bedsheets off one of the shelves nearest to save face, then held it up to Garrett, swaying.

“I’ll just go then. Sorry for bothering you.”

He turned, heading towards the door. His brain screamed at him to stay, try to apologise in some way, to make up with Garrett for what he had done before, to explain himself, anything. He wanted nothing more in the world than to talk to Garrett, really talk, one last time, but the rational, logical part of his mind told him that Garrett hadn’t wanted to talk to him before, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to him now. His feet slowed, but his mind told him to leave, now.

He reached to swing the door shut behind him as he left the room, but a voice stopped him. Corvo fully expected another angry monologue from Garrett, but the voice was quiet, soft with no anger to it. Just exhaustion.

“Stay.”

Suddenly his mind was transported back to Garrett’s clocktower home, eight years prior, when he had exploded in frustration at Garrett’s point-blank refusal to allow Corvo to help him recover, even when he was unable to sleep or eat or look after himself. The continued anxiety caused by Garrett’s poor condition and his apparent refusal to try to improve the situation had built up and Corvo had ranted at him, saying some things that even now he regretted.

There was a moment of silence. Corvo’s addled brain struggled to figure out whether Garrett actually wanted him to stay, or if he was just saying it. Then, he chastised himself. Garrett, Corvo knew, would not ask someone to stay if he didn’t want them to. He swayed in the doorway, then turned, left the door ajar to allow some light in but not too much, and picked his way back across the room and worked his way behind the shelf that Garrett used as cover.

He had not been this close to Garrett in years. He sat cross-legged beside Garrett in his tangled mess of bedsheets, giving him enough room that he wouldn’t feel cramped or threatened by Corvo’s presence.

“You’ll tell me if you want me to leave?” Corvo asked.

There was a low hum of confirmation and Garrett shuffled slightly, his body partially illuminated by the light from the corridor, the slats from the shelves filtering it and casting striped yellow stripes across the floor, his face, his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned in discomfort.

The lights would be out soon, and it would be nigh-on impossible for Corvo to find his way back to Garrett if the room was left in pitch-blackness, so he simply sat there quietly, allowing Garrett to become accustomed to his presence. He took the opportunity to quietly study Garrett’s face, the cheek that had now become knotted and scarred from some unknown accident, the gaunt cheeks, the pulse beating gently in his neck. Garrett had been thin when Corvo had known him all those years ago, and he was sure that it was unlikely that the thief would have become any thinner during that time - he seemed stretched to his limits as it was - but every time they ran into each other, it seemed that Garrett had lost weight. He put on airs of stability and strength, hid in the dark, appeared to believe himself invincible at times, but it seemed to Corvo that he was likely more vulnerable than he wanted to let on. _Much_ more vulnerable. Isolated and strange, with habits leaving him open to every danger that came with the lack of a support system. Of course, he had his best friend and fence, Basso, but he lived on the other side of the Stonemarket Plaza, and when Garrett was too ill to leave his home he was left stranded.

Garrett’s skin was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat, his bracers left in the corner, a tangle of leather and laces. His scarf sat on top of that and his hood was pulled down, exposing a mess of black hair that was slightly longer than he had kept it before, with strands of grey sitting around the backs of his ears. He facial hair had been left unshaven for several days now, amplifying the age that seemed to have caught up with him. His chest rose and fell slowly, his eyes still screwed shut, and he clenched his jaw. Then he opened his eyes again. Lifted his head off the floor, but only slightly.

The eyes looked glassy, but he managed to maintain his eye contact with Corvo for some time before laying his head back down again. He observed Corvo with an unreadable expression for some time before either of them spoke, and even then, the voices were very low.

“Where did we go so wrong?” Corvo slurred, resting his head against the wall, running his fingers up and down the bottle of whiskey on the floor next to him. “How did we let this happen to us?”

Of course, Corvo wasn’t just referring to the fact that they had been successfully trapped with no means of escaping, but their years spent apart from each other and the poor terms on which they had parted ways.

Garrett paused for a moment, silent, and then grunted. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quiet and cracked, like he hadn’t spoken in days. Corvo wondered briefly if he had any water to drink here, or if he’d eaten since they had first entered the house.

More silence as Corvo tried to decide what to say. Garrett had never been the easiest conversation partner, but something about the amicable silence had always suited Corvo; his life was busy and full of people talking _at_ him about mundane, uninteresting politics, so it was nice to just be content in sitting quietly with someone. He did, however, feel the need to say something to Garrett. _Anything._ Anything to begin to make up for the past eight years, but how did one even go about doing that?

Was it possible?

“You should stop drinking that,” Garrett said to Corvo’s surprise, referencing the bottle sat on the floor by Corvo’s thigh, “It’s not good for you.”

“And neither is hiding in a cupboard for days on end,” Corvo said in response, “Have _you_ had anything to drink in the last three days?”

There was silence. Then Garrett laughed dryly and closed his eyes again. “Trust _you_ to still be worried about me. I can take care of myself.”

“I remember someone saying that to me years ago, when they’d had all their fingers broken and they were at death’s door from starvation,” Corvo said, amazed that Garrett had opened up to a conversation with him, if it could be called that, “Not to spoil the story for you, but they benefited from a little help.”

Garrett seemed unamused by the story. He didn’t look at Corvo, but continued to lay on the floor with his eyes closed. “Did they?”

_That_ was a punch to the gut. Corvo took another swig directly from the whiskey bottle and shrugged to himself. “It seemed like it at the time, but it seems betrayal wasn’t particularly good for them either. It’s one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made in my life.”

There was a muffled _bang_ from outside and the room fell into darkness, the lights extinguished as the clock struck eleven from down the corridor. They waited in silence together as the noise eventually stopped, and the house fell still. Corvo could hear Garrett shuffling about in the bed sheets, trying to find a comfortable spot.

Some time passed. Corvo found himself wondering if Garrett had fallen asleep, but the thief’s voice proved him wrong.

“I spent so much time wondering if I’d done the right thing, by kicking you out. I spent _years_ planning what I’d say to you if I ever met you again, but I knew it’d never happen, realistically. But when we _did_ meet, I panicked. I got scared. I forgot everything that I had planned out, so I hit you where it hurts the most.”

He wasn’t wrong in saying that. It _had_ hurt Corvo, down to the bone. Garrett’s words still rang in his ears, torturing him for days now. “You can say what you planned now, if you want.”

There was a shuffling sound that might have been Garrett shaking his head. “None of it matters now. It’s done.” A pause. “Did I do the right thing, in sending you away?”

Corvo paused, unsure of how to answer. It wasn’t a simple question, especially not from his point of view. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I think so. Yes, you did the right thing, but for me? I wish you’d done the wrong thing. Often the right answers are the hardest ones, and I accept that what I did was wrong, and you needed to send me away for your own wellbeing. The selfish part of me wishes you’d have forgiven me, though.”

Garrett nodded again, slowly. “Basso told me I was right. But I can’t help but wonder if you’d have been helpful in my life since then.”

Corvo held off on asking Garrett what _had_ happened in his life since Corvo had returned to Dunwall. His own life had been busy, full of stress, anxiety and sorrow as parts of his life had been picked away piece-by-piece, but all he had to show for it physically was grey hair, lots of wrinkles, and an alcohol problem. Garrett, on the other hand, looked like he’d had his face torn apart and stitched back together, his eye replaced, his paranoia increased tenfold and his support system destroyed. Whatever had led him to Dunwall would have been catastrophic, and whatever now had him lying in the corner of a dark laundry cupboard clutching his head was equally bad news.

“Can I do anything to help?” Corvo asked, gesturing to Garrett’s head as he continued to clutch it. Garrett just furrowed his brow, frowning.

“Not unless you can work out where they’re coming from. It’s been six years and I still haven’t figured it out myself. Seems it might just be best to try and live with them.”

Corvo sighed, looking over sympathetically at where he thought Garrett might be. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but he had long since stopped worrying about upsetting Garrett like he had done two nights before, and was simply enjoying his presence. It felt _natural_ talking to him, like they shared some kind of unique connection.

“So how many people _did_ you kill?” Garrett asked offhandedly, taking Corvo by surprise with the directness of the question. It wasn’t the sort of thing that Corvo had expected to be discussing on their first proper meeting after so much time apart, but upon further thought, it seemed to make sense.

“I don’t know,” he admitted truthfully, “I killed who I had to, but I didn’t keep tallies. I don’t find pleasure or joy in killing - it felt more like a little piece of my soul died with every life I took - but at the time, there didn’t seem to be any other way. When you’re in a position where there appears to be a choice between your daughter’s life and some soldier or jumped-up, overpaid noble… Well, there isn’t much of a debate to be had. You do what you have to do.”

“You took a contract out on me,” Garrett said quietly, “That wasn’t for your daughter.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Corvo said in agreement, “For that, I have no explanation. For a long time, I tried to justify it to myself by telling myself it was to strengthen ties with your city state’s leadership to make Emily’s rule easier, but I always knew that was bullshit.” He scoffed in disdain, and took another drink from the bottle. It was feeling noticeably lighter in his hands now than it had earlier that evening. “Maybe I was struggling with my place in the world. Maybe I wanted approval. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable of something, or maybe I was just bored. It doesn’t really matter why I did it; what matters is that I did. I don’t know if I can forgive myself for it. And now I’m on the other end of the sword.”

“And now you’re on the other end of the sword,” Garrett agreed, then fell silent, still clutching his head in the darkness.

Several minutes passed. For a short time, Corvo was convinced that Garrett would order him out, convinced once again that he was too dangerous to be around, but he didn’t regret the confession. If anything, it was cathartic. It felt _good_ to tell someone about what he’d been feeling in relation to the events, and it felt especially good to tell Garrett. It wasn’t an apology, but expressing his regret was a start. In fact… had he apologised at all?

“I’m sorry,” Corvo said, hoping Garrett hadn’t fallen asleep, “I’m sorry for everything, truly. If you never want to see me again, I’ll understand, and I won’t hold it against you.”

More silence. It sounded like Garrett was deciding whether to reject Corvo again or not, and although he could spend all the time in the world convincing himself he didn’t care, deep down he hoped Garrett would accept him back into his life again, even just as an acquaintance. He looked down into his lap, his head between his knees as they were tucked up beneath his chin, resting his arms on the back of his head as he stared down into the darkness.

Once again, no response. Corvo waited for minutes, his mouth slightly dry in anticipation of Garrett’s answer, but unwilling to rush him for answers. As time passed, Corvo could begin to make out the sound of ticking from the grandfather clock on the other side of the house, by the front doors leading into the house. He rearranged himself into a slightly more comfortable sitting position, his legs tucked beneath his body now, and waited.

There was shuffling in the room. The sound of someone moving around, untangling themselves from bedsheets and crawling across the floor, and suddenly he felt something in his lap. A head. Garrett’s head.

Corvo resisted the urge to scoop Garrett up into his arms and hold him, instead opting to gently, _very gently,_ lower a hand onto his shoulder, thumbing the back of his neck, playing with the wisps of hair. In the first instance, Garrett started at the contact, unaccustomed to touch like this, but after a few minutes his muscles loosened and he relaxed into the gentle stroking motions as Corvo worked them up and down his neck, eliciting goosebumps from him. He rubbed circles into the base of Garrett’s neck, working his way up to the hairline, then down towards his shoulders. Garrett groaned and shuddered.

“You’re in pain,” Corvo said, “What’s wrong?”

“Just a headache,” Garrett said in response, “It’ll go away soon.”

If Corvo remembered one thing about Garrett, it was that he constantly understated the amount of pain that he was in. “Shall I stop?”

“No,” Garrett said quickly, “Keep going. It’s helping.”

It seemed funny to Corvo, in a sad sort of way, that Garrett was happy to let people know when they should stop doing something or stay away from him, but so intent on hiding his pain like some kind of cat. It made sense that, to the thief, admitting pain would mean admitting weakness which would also mean leaving an opening for people to take advantage of him if they so wished, but from what Corvo could tell, he was like this even around Basso, who he supposedly trusted more than anyone else in the world. It also made sense that Garrett would be firm about preventing people from getting too close because, once again, it left him vulnerable. Corvo couldn’t help but wonder if Garrett knew the dangers that came with a lack of support from other people too.

Of _course_ he knew. He had lived like this for almost his entire life. The whole concept just seemed so alien to Corvo that he couldn’t quite process it. He continued to run his hand up and down Garrett’s neck, working his fingers into the knots in his shoulders, playing with the strands of hair behind his ears, at the base of his skull, at his temple.

Something occurred to Corvo, something pressing. He had noticed Garrett once or twice sneaking food out of the ballroom after everyone else had left, and he suspected it was because he only felt safe if other people had eaten it - tested it for poison. What little progress Garrett had made with food was likely now null and void with Bevis’ death, and the idea concerned Corvo greatly.

“Have you been eating?” Corvo said after some time, still stroking Garrett’s neck. There was a protracted pause while Garrett decided what to say, but Corvo waited patiently for the answer.

“Yes.”

“If I bring you food tomorrow, would you eat it?”

There was a much longer pause this time. Garrett tensed up under Corvo’s hands, who cursed himself inwardly for being so pushy about the issue. He was sure that Garrett would find food if he needed it, but the memory of Garrett’s skin stretched taut over his bones was still painful in his mind. The answer to Corvo’s question was clear: there was no guarantee that he'd be able to eat anything. Even then, Corvo himself was nervous about the prospect of eating any of the food brought to them; Bevis’ death had been a very stark reminder of how vulnerable they all were, subject to the whims of whoever it was that had imprisoned them.

“We can eat together,” Corvo finally said, “We’ll go slowly. I can test it for you, and you can eat when you’re ready. Does that sound good?”

More silence. Corvo decided to take that as a yes, and hummed quietly, still stroking Garrett’s head. He had been silent for some time now, but whether that was because of anxiety, a lack of ideas on what to say next, or pure exhaustion and illness was another question entirely.

It took some time, but eventually Garrett’s breathing slowed, became deeper and steadier. All the tension evaporated from his muscles, his arms curled up by his chest, one of his legs outstretched and the other bent at a right-angle as if he were running. A long time passed, maybe half an hour judging by the chime of the clock, and Corvo continued to massage Garrett’s head, shoulders and neck as he lay in his lap.

It would make more sense, Corvo thought, for Garrett to have a proper pillow, something to rest his head on. He eased Garrett’s head off his lap and onto the floor, stopping only momentarily as Garrett briefly awoke murmuring something that made no sense, then fetched a pillow from one of the racks and a light blanket. He sat back down on the floor next to Garrett’s head, placed the pillow on his lap, and slid his hands under the shoulders and neck, easing them onto it.

Garrett mumbled a garbled “thanks” to Corvo, shuffled once again on the floor as Corvo stroked the back of his neck soothingly, and within seconds he was asleep again, breathing peacefully in his arms. Although it was a warm evening, the darkness and isolation of the laundry room seemed to have made it cool, so Corvo picked the light blanket up, careful not to wake Garrett in the process, and spread it over the two of them, throwing the two far ends so they reached Garrett’s toes, and rearranged it at the top to cover Corvo’s lap and Garrett’s shoulders.

Only then, only when Garrett was fully covered, comfortable in where he was sleeping, Corvo allowed his mind to wander back to himself. He looked at the whiskey bottle by his side, wishing he’d gone to the scullery while he’d been picking up the pillow and blanket for Garrett and poured it down the sink. He knew that Garrett would be disappointed in him for developing a bad habit like this, but he had his own vices and needs, same as Corvo. The real question was whether Garrett would stick to his decision to allow Corvo back into his life once the morning came and the headache had cleared. It was easy to allow himself to think that Garrett would simply accept him out of the blue, but he couldn’t help but think there was more than that to it. There were eight years of harboured resentment that had built up and festered over time - and Corvo knew better than anyone that it wasn’t just this easy to get over.

He let his head fall back and rest against the wall behind him, thinking. It felt _good_ to have Garrett laying in his lap; it felt _right._ And how hard would that be to give up if Garrett retrospectively decided to reject him again?

He bit the back of his knuckles at the thought, then stopped and chastised himself for all the self-pity he had fallen to recently. _This_ wasn’t a situation he could simply dismiss, destroy it in the fear that Garrett might destroy it first. He had to keep his cool. He had to get both of them out of the mansion - then and _only then_ would he allow himself to start asking questions.

A knot formed in his stomach and began to choke him. Hot tears formed in the corners of his eyes and he bit them back harshly. He couldn’t believe that he had been given this opportunity.

He cradled Garrett in his lap for what felt like a very long time, enjoying simply being in his presence. The next day, they would be able to have a longer discussion about things: why Garrett was here, why he had been in Dunwall, what had happened to his eye, and what he had been up to during the few years just past. But for now, he was happy simply to hold him. To keep him safe.

Garrett slept soundly, his eyelids fluttering occasionally with the onset of dreams.

And Corvo watched him until he too fell asleep.


	11. Day 3, The Restless Hands: Part 1

Garrett started awake for the fifth time that night, and this time he didn’t fall back asleep. It wasn’t possible for him to say that he had slept well, but his migraine was gone now and that was all that counted.

Oftentimes, particularly in the most recent few weeks, it took him some time to re-orientate himself when he woke up at night, having spent so much time moving around from place to place in search of safety. From clocktower to church to boat to house and now to laundry cupboard. It all seemed to blur together, especially when he was only half asleep, yet it was so distinct during his waking hours, and he had taken to using his keen sense of smell to work out where he was in the evenings; there had been too many occasions on which he had woken up and found himself in the clocktower, only for it to burn down around him and _then_ he would wake up, truly this time. The nightmares had become so much more realistic. It did seem, however, that he was getting better at staying quiet though.

What confused him, as he came to, was the smell surrounding him. It wasn’t like _any_ of the places he had stayed in recently, but he recognised it from a time much further in the past. He braced himself, preparing for something disastrous or terrifying to happen, inflicted on him by his own subconscious, but instead he found warmth. The sensation of breath on the back of his neck. The smell of alcohol and peach soap.

Garrett pinched the back of his left hand, as a final test of whether this was a dream or not, and the pain confirmed it. This was real.

The lights appeared still to be turned off in the corridor, meaning it was still very early. Although his mind was still cloudy and muddled from sleep, he picked his way through the clues and the memories, working out what had happened. The whole interaction with Corvo had been overshadowed by the pain of the migraine, the terrible emptiness of his stomach and the dryness of his mouth, but he had felt no terror. No anger. No irritation. In fact, as he had spent more time with Corvo, his migraine seemed to have lessened in intensity, soothed away over time, although Garrett rationalised that that was the result of spending lots of time in a darkened room.

Still, he felt he had been influenced by his poor condition, made him more susceptible to attempts to get him to open up. He had been so _angry_ at Corvo before, and the second he had been given the chance, he had not only allowed Corvo to spend time around him, he had _opened up to him_ as well. It set a very dangerous precedent for him; what would he forgive next in search of some soft words and a bit of a stroke on the back of his neck? How much danger would he open himself up to when compromised?

He shuffled away from Corvo, carefully trying to extricate himself from the blanket with little success. It was true - the man could easily have killed him in his sleep, but what if he was waiting for a more opportune moment to strike? _What if…?_

No. That was silly. The logical part of him argued that he had been through all this at length before, trying to decide whether or not to trust Corvo when, if his behaviour was taken at face value, he had no clear intentions of killing him. Time after time, Garrett had been at Corvo’s mercy, yet nothing _bad_ had happened, as such. In fact, the man had multiple opportunities simply to allow Garrett to die through simple inaction: he could have allowed him to fall from the tower, allowed his wounds to fester and poison him from the inside, allowed him simply to stop eating and drinking and waste away. He could have gone back to his home to his creature comforts and his daughter, _but he hadn’t._ He had _stayed_ with Garrett until the moment he had been kicked out and told never to return.

So why now did he feel so on edge?

The lights in the corridor outside came on with a _bang,_ and the grandfather clock in the hallway started to strike, six loud chimes. Light filtered in through the crack in the door, and with that, Garrett now found himself able to observe Corvo properly, without relying only on his sense of hearing. The slats of warm light shone down onto the floor, throwing stripes across Corvo’s sleeping face. He stirred, mumbled something nonsensical, curled in on himself tighter now that Garrett was gone, and fell back into near-silence, interrupted only by his quiet, rhythmic breathing.

He slept with his back to the wall, his legs curled up beneath him, his neck at an odd angle. A pillow sat in his lap, enclosed by the crescent shape of his body, with an indent where Garrett’s head had been during the night. His greying hair hung limp and messy, over the front of his face, collecting in tufts, and his beard clearly hadn’t been trimmed in several days. The eyes were ringed in dark circles despite the apparent restfulness of his sleep, and upon closer inspection, Garrett found him grinding his teeth. The whiskey bottle sat off to the side, so Garrett crawled over, collected the bottle, corked it, and hid it between a set of sheets so only he would be able to find it. Corvo’s appearance the previous night, heavily intoxicated and highly emotional, had troubled Garrett; he had seemed much more emotionally stable before, if a bit open for his tastes, handling many of the more stressful situations with relative ease. 

It made little sense to Garrett. Corvo was an _Emperor._ He would _never_ want for food, shelter, clean water or warmth, which Garrett had struggled with his entire life. He was fortunate. He was privileged. So why now would he develop these sort of problems?

Garrett watched Corvo for several more minutes before getting up and shutting the door to the cupboard. It made him deeply uncomfortable that Corvo had been able to find him in the first place, especially while drunk. The light, although mostly blocked, still filtered beneath the door, stretching out across the floor where it touched Corvo’s curled fingers and wrapped hand. 

But what was under that wrap? Garrett remembered that Corvo had bore a strange mark on his hand, one that Garrett had never seen before. It was possible that that mark would single him out for trouble, so now he was Emperor, it would make sense that he would cover it. However, the thought that there might be something _else_ under there had Garrett’s mind racing. He had to look.

He edged towards Corvo, keeping his noise to a minimum, and leant down on his elbows, drawing closer to the hand. Corvo didn’t move. Garrett carefully reached out and tested the waters by _very gently_ stroking the inside of Corvo’s fingers. Corvo didn’t move. Garrett picked up Corvo’s hand and turned it over, searching for a clasp or some kind of fastening so that he could release the wrap and reveal what was underneath. Still, Corvo didn’t move.

The fastening, it turned out, was a metal part that wrapped around Corvo’s finger, holding the fabric on. It seemed far too risky to try releasing that, so Garrett turned Corvo’s hand until the palm was facing upwards, then slid his fingers beneath the stretchy cloth.

Corvo bolted awake.

He let out a terrified cry, tried to rise to his feet but quickly dropped back to his knees, holding the wrapped hand tightly to his chest, his eyes wide, panting and shuffling himself away before he gained full awareness of his surroundings. In his frenzy, Corvo had shuffled off into the darkness, out of the light, and it took several minutes for his breathing to slow down. Garrett himself had been frightened by the outburst, and he found that he had also shuffled off to protect himself from danger.

“Garrett…?” Corvo asked, still shrouded in darkness.

Garrett decided not to answer, remaining silent and still.

Corvo called out again, his voice slightly more panicked this time. “Garrett? _Garrett?”_

“I’m here,” Garrett heard himself say against his better judgement, and shuffled back into the light, “What do you want?”

There was a moment of silence, then a sigh of relief. Corvo’s face emerged once again, the lines much harsher than they had been while he was asleep, but still kindly. Garrett couldn’t help but notice that he was still holding the wrapped hand tightly to his chest.

“You look terrible,” Corvo said, turning around so his back was to the wall, and he sat down, sighing again. His voice was hoarse and cracked. He brought a hand to his forehead and covered his face, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes to stave off the exhaustion.

“Thanks. You too,” Garrett said, then sank back to the floor, his legs folded beneath him. Corvo appeared to falter, unsure of what to do next, whether to attempt to talk to Garrett some more, or simply to leave. In all truth, Garrett wasn’t even sure what he wanted the man to do, himself. He was still processing the events of the previous night, still trying to work out what he wanted.

In a strange way, it was almost like when he had told Corvo to leave him and never come back, in that he still wasn’t sure of what would be most beneficial for _him._ Granted, this time he was less panicked, the stakes were lower, his mind was clearer, but the situation seemed familiar. He narrowed his eyes at Corvo, still unsure of whether he could trust him or not. Corvo _did_ seem unstable at the moment - desperate men, it seemed to Garrett, were more prone to making foolish choices and acting erratically - but he didn’t seem _dangerous._ Not to Garrett, anyway.

There was a silence. Long moments that seemed to stretch out into hours, leaving Garrett unsure of what to say next.

“I’m getting us some water,” Corvo said eventually, rising to his feet with a protracted groan, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Garrett watched him, backing off slightly into the shadows, watched the feet as they cast long shadows across the floor, then shielded his eyes from the brightness of the corridor as Corvo swung the door open, then closed it behind him again, leaving Garrett in darkness. He listened very carefully to the noises outside, half expecting Corvo to barricade the door on the other side, trapping him in, but he found no such noises came. Instead, he was left with the sound of retreating footsteps, of leather shoes on carpeted floor, and eventually, nothing.

Garrett sat there for some time, still staring. He flexed his fingers by his crouched legs, trying to banish the stiffness that had settled into them, albeit unsuccessfully. Briefly, he wondered if he should make a break for it, to run somewhere secret, but found himself stuck to the floor, waiting for Corvo’s return. A low anxiety ebbed in his stomach, amplified by the hunger and the emptiness.

After some time, Corvo returned with a jug of water and two glass cups. He stopped at the door for a moment, then called out to Garrett. His voice was still hoarse, although it seemed to have recovered with his wakefulness. “Can I turn the light on? I don’t want to spill this.”

Garrett nodded in response, then realised that Corvo probably couldn’t see the gesture. Instead, he hummed a low confirmation, and he covered his eyes in preparation for the blinding light his eyes were so clearly unused to. A moment later and the switch _clicked_ on, a quiet buzzing sound coming from the circuitry just beyond the wall, and Corvo finally closed the door behind him and picked his way back towards where Garrett sat.

Now that his cover of shadows had gone, Garrett felt painfully exposed, as if naked. He sat there, one hand still shadowing his eyes, squinting at Corvo as he finally sat down across from Garrett, just out of arm’s reach. In contrast to the lights in the corridor, the light in the laundry cupboard was orange and dull, much easier on the eyes and a bit less threatening. His eyes adjusted to the new light level, and he studied Corvo across the room.

Although Garrett hated to admit it, witnessing the old man’s death had shocked him greatly and damaged his already tenuous relationship with food in this house. He had never witnessed the poison being planted in the cup - and it _had_ to be the cup because Corvo had drunk from the same source as well - and if it were so easy to plant poison like that, then how else could it get to him? In fact, it made sense that Corvo might even have been the one planting the poison, and then drinking from the same bottle to prove that it wasn’t him who had been the murderer. Garrett withdrew slightly, drawing in on himself. How could he possibly beat something like this? If Corvo wasn’t safe, then how on earth was he going to survive in this place?

Corvo appeared to have noticed the way Garrett was looking at him, and his eyes softened in something that looked like pity. He finished pouring the water into one of the glasses, then sat down, cross-legged, looking slightly out of his depth, unsure of what to do.

Both glasses stood full on the floor in front of them. Garrett and Corvo faced each other head-on, one cross-legged and sat in the light, and the other curled up, his legs drawn beneath him, hiding in what little shadow he could find. He stared apprehensively at the glasses.

“It’s safe, I can promise you that,” Corvo said, “I washed them both myself, and drew the water fresh from the tap. Look--” he picked up a glass, showed Garrett the contents, then drank from it, taking a couple of mouthfuls before he placed it back down on the floor, half-empty. “See, I’m fine.”

Garrett grunted and continued to stare at Corvo, watching him intently for signs of discomfort. Several moments passed, Corvo looked at him hopefully, and Garrett watched with the eyes of a hawk.

After some time, Garrett finally picked up the half-empty glass that Corvo had draughted from and held it up to the light, studying it for signs of foreign or unexpected contents; particulates, discolouration or an oily trace left just above the meniscus when he tilted it to the side. Nothing struck him as odd. He smelled the water, searching for unusual scents, the smell of almonds from cyanide, burning from opium or the strong sweet smell of carbolic acid. Once again, no traces of poison.

Corvo had _proven_ that this water, this glass, was safe to drink from. So why was Garrett now unable even to bring it to his lips?

He stared at it for some time, trying to convince himself to drink, but found the task impossible. Again and again he found his mind wandering in favour of it, but again and again he lowered it. After some time, he gave up completely and placed the glass back on the floor, defeated.

Corvo looked crushed.

“Come on, Garrett. You can do better than this,” he said, “I know you can. You’ve done it before, and you will do it again. You can’t survive in this house without drinking water. What can I do to help?”

Garrett found himself unable to answer. He avoided eye contact with Corvo, finding it too awkward and painful to entertain, and instead stared at the ground in front of him. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t appreciate being forced into this position, yet every time he tried to object, his mind betrayed him and his words disappeared into the fog.

What was he doing? Why was he allowing himself to trust Corvo?

He looked at Corvo once more, studying the lines and creases on his face, the wrinkles and the greying beard, the furrowed brow and downturned mouth. He looked into his eyes and he saw a man who had been stretched to breaking point by his circumstances and had clawed his way back. Something softened inside him.

He grabbed the opportunity with all his strength and used it to grab the glass and bring it to his lips in one swift movement. Without allowing himself time to think, he tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth, drank, then found himself unable to stop. He had only meant to take one sip, but suddenly the overwhelming thirst hit him like a sack of bricks and the water was gone before he could even register what he was doing.

He grimaced, then sat the glass back down on the floor. Anxiety churned in the pit of his stomach, but he pushed it down. He had done this before, and he _could_ get through it, he _could_ survive by satisfying his needs. What was it that he’d realised earlier? He wouldn’t be able to make it through this without an ally or he’d waste away in this room, his chances of survival reduced nearly to none.

Yes, theoretically it was possible that Corvo was the murderer. Garrett knew very little about the man’s situation or the people he surrounded himself with. But something deep in his guts urged him to trust Corvo, to allow him to guide Garrett through this and help him survive. It was going to be hard, but he knew he could do it.

Suddenly, he felt invigorated. He poured himself another cup of water from the jug and drank again, his thirst washed away by cool water. When he finished, he lowered the cup and dared to look at Corvo. He was smiling at him, his eyes kindly. Garrett saw no malice there, no ill intentions - just relief. Pride. It eased away the last of Garrett’s apprehension and he finally relaxed backwards into the wall, feeling better than he had in days. Maybe it wasn’t only the water that had prompted such a positive reaction from him; maybe it was also the thought that now he had someone he might, given some time and effort, be able to trust.

Corvo poured more of the water from the jug firstly into Garrett’s cup, and then into the other. Placing the jug down, he gestured down to the cup with his head, prompting Garrett to drink again, then helped himself to the water in the other cup. “Sip it,” he said after a moment, “Don’t make yourself sick. Take it slowly.”

Garrett didn’t respond to this, but followed Corvo’s instructions anyway. He sat there on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall, slowly sipping at the water, finally feeling the dehydration headache begin to lift. The jug was nearly empty now.

Corvo stood up and stretched, groaning. It seemed to Garrett that Corvo had not been sleeping in the most comfortable position, but he didn’t show it in his movements after he stretched. “I’m going to get some breakfast for us,” he said, making his way to the door, “Finish off the water in that jug. I’ll be back with food in a bit.”

Garrett nodded in response, appreciating the slight draft that wafted in through the door as Corvo exited through it, then got up and returned to his nest, covering himself in the protective folds of fresh linen. He worked slowly at the jug of water, downing the contents over the passing minutes, but found himself growing sleepy again. Only a few drops of water remained in the bottom of the jug, so Garrett finished it off, then curled up in-between the sheets, wrapping himself up, appreciating the silence of the room.

He fell asleep quickly, satisfied and content for the first time in years.

* * *

Suleiman and Jindosh were already sitting in the ballroom by the time Corvo arrived and sat down. He threw Jindosh a hard stare, which was duly ignored by the recipient, then turned to Suleiman and tipped his head. “You’re here early.”

Suleiman nodded in response, unsmiling, his hands folded neatly in his lap, surprisingly well put-together considering the circumstances. “I didn’t sleep well. As soon as the lights came on, I headed down here to think.”

Corvo nodded absentmindedly. He couldn’t help but notice that neither Suleiman nor Jindosh had started eating, or even helped themselves to coffee, tea or juice. They both looked drawn, exhausted from physical and mental exertion, badly in need of safety and sleep. Neither would be forthcoming here.

“I found this,” Suleiman said after some time, standing up and leaning over the table to pass Corvo a white card, similar to the one Lucy had given him the day before, “It might be important.”

Corvo scanned the typed text on the card for a short time, reading its contents. His suspicions were confirmed with the stricture - stricture number five, The Rampant Hunger - that was written in crisp black text on the front of the page. Then, turning it over, he found two more words. A name in block capitals.

_William Bevis._

Corvo resisted the urge to crumple the card, and chose to drop it to the table instead. He looked at Suleiman, who shrugged and returned to staring at the tablecloth, offering no answers. At that moment, several more people filed in through the doors and took their places once again, each one looking just as stressed and tired as the last. Over a mere three days, the atmosphere in the house had degraded from one of puzzling mystery to dark foreboding. It was warm; the unseasonable summer sun was clearly beating down on the garden outside, but somehow, it still felt _cold._ Like they were already dead.

Taking stock of the situation, Corvo studied the table and its occupants. Jacques, Lucy, Giovanni, Jindosh, Suleiman, and Corvo. Two people down. Six people left, seven if Garrett also counted. It wasn’t looking good.

Corvo walked around to Jacques and handed him the card, standing above him as he read the contents, then tossed it onto the table when he was done, leaning back in frustration and sighing.

“What does it say?” Lucy asked as Corvo returned to his seat and sat down heavily.

“It says,” Jacques said, then cleared his throat, "Restrict the Rampant Hunger or the intemperate will rise up among you like a virulent swarm, devouring everything wherever they go, even filth. For what goes into your body, poisons you, and if you eat filth, then filth is what you will vomit up. Surely the glutton will sell away birthright, family, and friends for a morsel of meat." He spoke quickly, with little regard for the words, a disdainful expression on his face, then he turned it over, “William Bevis. Great. So we’re being murdered one-by-one while the religious nuts cram it down our throats. What have we done now?”

Corvo shrugged. “I can think of a lot of things.”

“But none of them justify this,” Giovanni said, breaking his silence, “This whole setup must have cost a fortune. Why throw away that much money and kidnap some of the most important people in the Isles just to prove a point?”

“It’s a religious coup,” Jacques countered, “It has to be. Lock up the Emperor and his advisors, let them sweat it out for a bit as they die off, then let them continue ruling for the appearance of stability.”

“It could be a façade,” Lucy offered, “Or a bluff. Use the Abbey’s name to cause havoc and swing public opinion against them?”

“Either way, someone is either very pro or very anti-Abbey.”

Jacques shrugged and helped himself to some toast and butter in the centre of the table. Lucy protested, a quiet cry of warning, and Jacques stopped, knife still in hand, and looked at her disapprovingly. “I’ve lived on this gods-forsaken planet for sixty-three years now, and some jumped-up fool in a mask isn’t going to make me starve myself.”

There was a silence as the others around the table watched Jacques spread butter on his toast, then eat it. The quiet ticking of the grandfather clock outside was clearly audible in the ballroom, an ominous countdown of sorts. After several minutes, Jacques finished eating, sighed in contentment, then helped himself to more. 

“You can stop staring now,” he said, “I’m not dead. Get back to talking or piss off and leave me in peace.”

Corvo raised his eyebrows. Jacques never really had been one for manners, in fact it seemed at times that he had actively shunned them; but the nature of his position, the rank and his proximity to the Emperor meant he was able to get away with it most of the time. Generally, Corvo required him to tone down his language at formal events, and that seemed to do the trick. Nobody had complained about it, anyway. There were times when Lucy would appear to be embarrassed by his language, but she never complained about it.

“But have you _seen_ any of the Abbey louts wandering around?” Jindosh asked, “How are they supposed to be killing us if we haven’t even seen them? We would notice if someone were coming in through the main door on the regular.”

There was silence. Corvo could see where this was going.

“An insider.” Lucy said finally, “Someone here is doing their dirty work.”

_“Exactly,”_ Jindosh said, “And who other than Corvo’s dear friend, the man in black? Wouldn’t it make sense for him to dispatch Bevis while he was busy accusing him of murder? To shut him up?”

Corvo knew that Jindosh was wrong, but his logic made sense. Bevis had been the driving force behind the accusations against Garrett, and removing that force would, without a doubt, at least slow down the search for him.

Or…

Would it simply rile them up more?

It was pointless for Corvo to think about it too much. He _knew_ that Garrett wasn’t the person murdering the others, and that was all he needed. He could tell the others he wasn’t responsible or even capable of committing acts like these until he was blue in the face, but they wouldn’t listen to him. It would be effort wasted. What _did_ disturb Corvo was the thought that rational people like Lucy were finally being swayed and convinced of Garrett’s guilt.

“We should stick together,” Giovanni said, “Much harder to murder us in secret if we stay together and watch each other’s backs.”

Corvo wondered if Giovanni had worked out that his wife was probably dead by now. Something about the man had hardened; he had become pale, cold, secretive. He frowned from his place, his arms folded across his chest, leant backwards.

Suleiman laughed dryly from the other side of the table. “This isn’t something we can stop just by _sticking together,_ my friend. It would have been a terrible oversight for these Abbey men to be foiled by a group of people deciding to stick together.”

“He’s right,” Jacues said between mouthfuls of toast, “We need a more substantial plan.”

There _was_ no more substantial plan, Corvo knew. They had exhausted all the possible routes of entry and exit, save for the well at the bottom of the garden. They could try to defend themselves, or communicate with their captors, but even that was a long shot. A wave of hopelessness washed over Corvo. What else could he do?

Jacques spoke again. “I think it’s very interesting that we’re being killed in what appears to be a symbolic fashion, but there are only seven strictures, yet eight of us are - or were - trapped in here, nine if you count the man in black. What’s the meaning behind that?”

“Maybe some of us aren’t _actually_ for the chop,” Corvo said, “Or maybe they just wanted rid of the whole council while they were at it, and fuck the symbolism.”

“I’m actually not on the council,” Jindosh said, “And neither are these ones.” He pointed at Suleiman and Giovanni across the table.

There was a long silence. Then Giovanni spoke up. “We’ve had some trouble with the Abbey in Serkonos too. They wanted me to pressure the Emperor into giving them more power - a hand in policing the big cities, access to the treasury, a place on the Council of Karnaca. I didn’t want to, so I didn’t mention it.”

“Revenge it is,” Jindosh said, “So that explains you. But what about Mr. Coppermind here?”

Suleiman looked very uncomfortable. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Corvo toyed with the amulet that Suleiman had given him the day before, curling his fingers beneath the wrap and feeling its circular metal edge. Jindosh just narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“How can we trust you?” Jacques asked Suleiman.

“You can’t,” Suleiman said frankly, “There’s no _real_ proof for anything, regarding who I am. It will just confuse things.”

Jacques sighed again and leant back into his chair, looking defeated. “Great. Really useful. Thanks.”

Corvo shot Suleiman a look, but decided not to say anything. He was done with speculation. They could talk all day about who might have trapped them, who was killing them, whether the Strictures and the killings were a ruse or not, but ultimately it would get them nowhere. In fact, worsening relations would be worse for them as a group. They couldn’t afford to lose what trust they already had.

The conversation appeared to have ended now. Most of the occupants of the table were simply sitting in silence, staring at each other, so Corvo got up, scraping his chair along the floor as he went, picked up a plate of bread, jam, cheese and cured meat, and headed out the door.

“What are you doing?” Giovanni said, his voice slightly desperate, “We said we’d stick together.”

“I trust you can do that,” Corvo said, continuing out the door, “I’m going to my room. Alone.”

He left the room in silence, and swung the ballroom door shut behind him, carefully carrying the plate so as not to spill any of its contents. He glanced at the Clockwork Soldier as he passed, checking it for the red light that had been blinking in its eye socket the day before, and stopped abruptly.

The head had _not_ been facing in that direction the day before.

Still gripping the plate, Corvo drew in closer to the automaton and studied it intently. Maybe someone had come in and moved it during the night. Maybe he, in his rage the day before when he kicked it, had somehow loosened one of the joints and caused the head to move?

There was a sudden whirring sound. Corvo jumped violently and stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The Clockwork’s head was moving. Turning to look at him.

Corvo froze in terror, preparing himself to run. There was no way he’d be able to fight a Clockwork here, in such a confined space with no weapons. He braced himself.

Then the head stopped.

Silence.

Corvo waited for his heart to stop racing, but somehow it didn’t. He felt himself shaking, his mouth dry, adrenaline pumping. There he stood, in the middle of the corridor for some time, watching the Clockwork intently. Waiting for it to move again.

A moment later and he stepped to the side. One step, then two. A delay of a few seconds. Then, the head rotated, following him with its eye sockets yet again.

Corvo turned on his heel, the fear and panic he felt at the situation and the knowledge that he was effectively being watched overcoming him. He didn’t dare to look back as he retreated down the corridor, his footsteps light and quick over the carpet, turning the corner at the nearest opportunity, forcing himself to _breathe slowly,_ to not hyperventilate.

Much easier said than done.

Maybe it had been a better idea to stick together all along, he thought as he rounded the corner and headed for the laundry room with the plate of food still clasped between hands now damp with sweat.

Maybe he _was_ treating this too lightly.

* * *

The sound of the door opening had Garrett reeling as he woke abruptly from his dreams. Instinctively, he shuffled back towards the wall, casting around for shadows to hide in, someplace to be safe from unfriendly faces, but as he searched his surroundings, reality became much clearer for him and the last of the confusion evaporated from his mind. He glanced over towards the door, concentrating on the person who had just entered, and found Corvo looking at him nervously.

Garrett nodded in acknowledgement and Corvo swung the door shut behind him, casting shadows on the floor as he moved about beneath the bare lightbulb. He avoided eye contact with Corvo as he set the plate down on the floor and followed it, seating himself cross-legged across from Garrett. He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. Like he was being interrogated.

Although he felt himself withdrawing from Corvo with each passing moment, his mind couldn’t seem to help being drawn to the smell of the (now cold) food on the plate Corvo had brought with him. He used it as a further excuse to avoid meeting Corvo’s gaze, instead staring at the silver plate in front of him. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The euphoria of gaining some semblance of closure from Corvo was beginning to wear off, the emotional part of his personality was receding again, making way for the logical part, and he found himself doubting Corvo yet again. It was like his mind wouldn’t switch off, wouldn’t stop racing, wouldn’t let him simply stop doubting things and achieve clarity and peace.

But that was just the way things were with Garrett. They always had been.

It would be much easier to learn to live with his foibles than to challenge them, although he knew both Basso and Corvo would disagree with him. But that wasn’t their prerogative; it was his life, and he had the right to live it in a way that was as easy as possible for _him._

He said nothing to Corvo, who was now looking at him expectantly from the other side of the plate. The thought of challenging himself like this was almost overwhelming. It was one thing to drink water when he was already dehydrated, when he knew he wouldn’t last much longer without it, but food was something he _knew_ he could last _weeks_ without, if he stayed very still. The chances of poisoning via meals were _much_ higher than poisoned water, water that had been brought to him by someone who’d already had multiple chances to kill him off if he’d so felt like it.

“Where did it come from?” Garrett finally asked, gesturing to the plate.

Corvo fumbled with his words. “I don’t really know.”

“At least you’re honest,” Garrett said, sitting back, his legs folded beneath him, “That’s a good start.”

He knew that the sarcastic comments were simply a way of distracting himself from his increasingly dry mouth and heavy stomach. Thankfully, Corvo seemed to recognise that the words weren’t given much weight; it was simply a coping mechanism, and arguably a much less destructive one than Corvo’s. It almost made him laugh. How the tables had turned.

“We don’t think they’ll try to poison us again, not via the food, anyway,” Corvo said, “We suspect these are symbolic killings.”

“And who is _they?”_ Garrett asked flatly.

“The Abbey of the Everyman. Some would call them religious nuts.”

Garrett nodded slowly and stared into space, his head downturned. Bruno had told him a lot about Dunwall and its culture, but he had hated the Abbey quite openly. Now, Garrett understood why.

Corvo continued. “We don’t know if it’s them for sure yet, though. It’s possible that someone is using their customs to swing favour against them.”

“Makes sense…” Garrett said, trailing off. He wasn’t really listening at this point. To him, the perpetrators of this grand scheme were inconsequential, all that mattered was that he _had_ been captured, and he _had_ to get out. Really, that was all there was to it.

“Do you feel up to eating?” Corvo asked, changing the topic and gesturing towards the plate on the floor. 

Garrett shrugged noncommittally. He didn’t really, but at the same time, the pain from the hollowness in his stomach threatened to consume him, and he was feeling weaker by the hour. He didn’t feel like doing much other than laying down on the floor and going back to sleep right now.

“Think about this,” Corvo said carefully, “If someone walks into here and finds you, what do you do?”

Garrett paused, then decided to entertain Corvo. “I hide.”

“And what if they find you again? What if there is nowhere to hide?”

“I run.”

“Right,” Corvo said, “But if you don’t eat, you have no energy. And if you have no energy, what happens?”

There was a pause. Garrett was becoming slightly annoyed at this game. “I slow down. I make mistakes.”

“And if you make mistakes?”

“I die.” Garrett finished off, chewing over the words thoughtfully. “But if I eat the wrong thing, I also die.”

“Correct,” Corvo said, rising to his feet and picking the jug back off the ground. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’m bringing us some more water.”

Garrett did as he was instructed, sitting on the floor, rocking slightly in anticipation. A few minutes passed in silence, Garrett listening to the sounds of the house, the creaking and groaning of the pipes, the footsteps on the floor above, before Corvo returned with a jug freshly refilled with water. 

“I had an idea,” Corvo said, sitting down again, “We could take slices of food at random. You get to pick first. That way, you can be sure that I’m not trying to poison you.”

“You eat first,” Garrett said insistently. Corvo nodded in response. 

“I eat first. And if there are problems, it’ll happen to me instead of you.”

Garrett felt a pang of guilt at the thought of insisting that Corvo put his life on the line to reassure him of his fears, but he pushed it back down, crushed it, ignored it. Then, he selected several slices of toast, cured meat and cheese at random, pulling them to the side of the plate. Corvo took the rest.

“Alright then,” Corvo said, “Let’s give this a go.”

Garrett couldn’t help but detect a note of fear in Corvo’s voice, but he dismissed it and watched him as he piled cheese and meat on a slice of toast, regarded it carefully, studying it from every possible angle, then took a bite.

Moments passed.

“It tastes alright,” Corvo said, “Rather have blood ox though, and I feel fine.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes at him and continued to sit in silence. Only a couple of minutes had passed since Corvo ate the food, and there was no telling whether the theoretical poison was fast-acting or not. He studied Corvo carefully for any early signs of poisoning; pale skin, tremor, facial expressions to indicate pain or discomfort. None came. He rocked slightly on his haunches in anticipation.

Eventually, Corvo reached out again and continued eating. “I think we’re good for now. How do you feel about going next?”

Garrett wasn’t sure. He couldn’t shake the idea that the poison might simply take a bit longer to act. These slow-acting poisons often weren’t quite as dramatic as the ones that hit in minutes, but the death that came from them was equally as horrible, perhaps even worse considering they also took hours or days to kill. Days spent dying in agony wasn’t something Garrett wanted to experience any time soon.

“I think I’ll wait,” Garrett finally said, his anxiety winning out to his annoyance. His stomach was still as hollow and painful as ever, but he rationalised that if, by the afternoon, Corvo was still healthy, he would probably try to eat something. For now, the risk was too great.

“Fine,” Corvo said, trying to disguise the disappointment in his voice albeit unsuccessfully, “But I’m expecting you to eat _something_ this evening.”

Silently, Garrett nodded. Although he felt fine about the idea of eating later (at the very moment), he knew that when the time came, it would be as hard to convince himself to put his own life on the line as it was now. He watched Corvo as he reached out and poured another glass of water and handed it to Garrett.

“Drink,” Corvo said, “It might help.”

Garrett shrugged, then did what he was told. Corvo had convinced him that he was safe to trust _for now,_ but what had happened last time? He had been betrayed at the last minute. Garrett knew that he had to keep a close eye on Corvo, to stay close while still maintaining some distance so that if it _was_ an act, a ploy to get his trust, Garrett would be less helpless against his whims.

And if it wasn’t an act… Then he would come out of the situation no worse than he had been before, and they could part ways again.

* * *

Bruno’s boat was docked in the Gristolian city of Whitecliffe before he heard news of the state of Dunwall. Although Whitecliffe was a comparatively small city, one would have expected that the streets would have been bustling with activity, with merchants on the streets selling their wares, with buskers, with traders and people out shopping. When they arrived and disembarked, however, the streets were quiet. Not deserted, but the air seemed… strained. There was tension. The people were unhappy. Bruno had seen it all before.

They had docked to restock with food, materials and fuel to continue on their voyage, which was expected to last for several more weeks. While the Captain of the ship, the _Albacore,_ took care of the restocking process, the crew were generally allowed to roam the city as they pleased, as long as they behaved themselves.

Naturally, Bruno and his friends had headed straight for a bar.

Whitecliffe was historically a stronghold of the Abbey of the Everyman. It was where they undertook religious rituals, served as a centre of pilgrimage for the devout, and housed many of the high-ranking clergy and priests. That fact, in and of itself, was enough to make Bruno feel uncomfortable here. He’d had his own unpleasant run-ins with the Abbey before, and he was keen to avoid such situations from there on out.

He had always suspected that the Abbey frowned upon everything fun in life, including drinking, so he was surprised at the presence of the public houses and bars that lined the empty streets. He walked next to Cam and Cooper as they searched for an establishment that didn’t look too empty, then turned right into a doorway, entering a building that smelled of beer and smoke with dark wooden furniture and a surly-looking bartender.

Bruno ordered his beer, sat down at the bar when it arrived, and stared down into the pint glass rimmed with dirt drinking occasionally, keeping an eye out for trouble around him. Cooper, the extrovert of the group, easily struck up a conversation with the bartender, who took to it with surprising ease. Although patrons were dotted here and there at different tables, they all seemed to be too engrossed in their own conversations to bother with what was being discussed at the bar.

“Seems quiet,” Cooper said, nursing his own glass between his hands, “Any news?”

“Not really, not from Whitecliffe, anyhow,” the old man said as Bruno listened in, “Abbey seems to be ropin’ more an’ more young men into joining, though.”

That piqued Bruno’s attention. He looked up abruptly, suddenly keen to hear more.

“What do you mean?” Cooper asked, leaning in, “How can you tell?”

The bartender looked around, presumably searching for people that might be eavesdropping, but seemed satisfied that their conversation was still private. “Young men bein’ shipped in every day now, bein’ sent up to the White Cliffs towards that big monastery. Seen ‘undreds, maybe thousands of ‘em go in, but none come back out. Bloody frightenin’ if you ask me. Dunno what they’re doin’ with ‘em, dunno if I even want to know.”

Cooper and Cam looked at each other for a moment, then over at Bruno. “And when did this start?”

“Couple’a weeks ago. In the last few days they’ve been rampin’ activities up though. More and more men goin’ in.”

“That’s… not good,” Cam said, “And they’re not in Whitecliffe proper at all?”

“No more’n usual,” the bartender said, “They maintained a policin’ force here, and they haven’t really come or gone in that respect. Who did you say you were again?”

Cooper jumped and held out his hand, shaking that of the bartender. “We’re fishermen. We’ve docked for a day or two for supplies.”

“I know you mightn’t be privy to this kinda info,” the bartender said, “But have you been getting orders from the Abbey? They gotta feed the men up there somehow.”

Cam shook his head. “No. But we work from Dunwall so we wouldn’t hear much of their needs from Whitecliffe.”

At the mention of Dunwall, the bartender’s face went pale and he seemed to withdraw slightly. His hand trembled as it hovered above the bar, then he drew up a chair and pulled it into his lap. His reaction signalled bad news to Bruno. His heart quickened.

“What?” What’s wrong?” Cooper asked, his voice suddenly sharp and insistent.

“You haven’t heard?” The bartender said, “Dunwall’s on fire. Massacres every night. People dyin’ in the streets, men bein’ pulled from their wives and kids in the night and brought to Dunwall Tower. They say the courtyard runs red with blood.”

_“What?”_ Cooper said, jumping to his feet, “No, you’re lying.”

“I ain’t no liar, son. Some people say it’s the Emperor, some say it’s the Abbey. Nobody wants to come out in Whitecliffe in case we get murders here too, and I don’t blame ‘em one bit. Haven’t heard owt from the Emperor for days, and the Serkonan ambassador’s gone missin’. Bad news, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“You’re telling me,” Cam said, and followed Cooper to his feet, then slammed several coins down on the table, obviously overpaying the bartender. 

“You don’t have family there, do you?” The bartender asked.

“We do.” Cooper said, “When’s the next boat back to Dunwall?”

“You’ll want ta ask at the docks for that,” the bartender said, scraping the coins off the counter and stashing them in the register, “But you should be able to get one by nightfall.”

Bruno followed his friends as they left the pub again, leaving his half-empty glass of beer behind on the counter. His heart was hammering in panic at the thought of Dunwall burning to the ground. He’d _had_ run-ins with the Abbey before. It had cost him his husband, and his tongue, and he was reluctant to put himself in danger yet again, but Garrett, the little man he’d met sailing from the City, was still trapped in there. He’d promised him safety and security in his house. He’d shared everything he had, his food, his shelter. He’d _encouraged him to steal from Corvo Attano._

What sort of person would he be if he didn’t at least warn him of the danger, tell him to hide?

But it was a three-day trip back to Dunwall.

He crushed the panic still rising in his chest, using the adrenaline to keep up with Cooper and Cam as they rushed through the empty streets, cutting through alleys and side-streets, clearing a low wall as they approached the dock and began to ask around frantically for a ship sailing back to Dunwall. It appeared that word travelled fast. Too many sailors were reluctant to go, seeking refuge in Whitecliffe or journeying onwards to other cities, some going as far as escaping to Morley. They searched boat after boat, each time receiving the same answer. Bruno paced distractedly as Cam and Cooper searched for transport, convincing himself that Garrett was smart enough to avoid being caught and executed for whatever crime the Abbey had decided to come down on.

Eventually, a man wearing a yellow waterproof jacket and a heavy hood approached them. It took the others a couple of moments to notice him as he stood in front of them, his face almost completely obscured by his garments.

“I can take you to Dunwall, but it will cost you. This is not a safe journey any more.”

“How much?” Cooper asked, pulling out a drawstring bag full of coin, “Whatever you ask.”

Bruno handed Cooper his own bag of coin then turned, observing his surroundings as he and the stranger agreed on price. The docks were still much busier than the streets of Whitecliffe, full of working boats and ferries alike, all clamouring on the water in what seemed like absolute chaos. The smell of dead whale was not nearly as pungent here as it was in Dunwall, but it smelled like something else instead.

Smelled like fear.

He looked up at the monastery on the cliffs, staring north, wondering what was going on with the Abbey here, wondering what was happening to all the men that were supposedly entering and never returning. And then a glint of gold caught his eye.

On one of the lower cliffs overlooking the harbour, an Overseer was watching him, standing straight, his arms behind his back, his feet together in a militaristic kind of pose. Bruno felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He wasn’t sure why, but deep in his stomach, he felt that he was being watched.

He didn’t just feel it.

He knew it.


	12. Day 3, The Restless Hands: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning (because I only recently updated the tags and it's not reasonable to expect everyone to check them religiously) the first part of this chapter contains hallucinations and descriptions of corpses that are _not fresh_ (and believe me, that was a fun search on Google). If you're icked out by that kinda thing ~~first I gotta ask why you're reading about a murder house~~ , skip to the first break, let me know in the comments and I can give a brief description, sans all the nasty details.
> 
> Also, this chapter hasn't been beta-read, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.

“What do you _mean_ you can see through the walls?” Corvo asked Garrett as they crept through the house together.

Corvo and Garrett had mutually agreed that it would benefit both of them far more to leave the confines of the laundry cupboard and explore the house using Garrett’s mysterious and unexplained power, rather than sitting together, hiding, and waiting for the end to come. Garrett had been having extreme difficulty in explaining what he was able to see to Corvo, much more when he couldn’t even point the red pipes out to Corvo, so they had left the cupboard and gone exploring. It had taken some time for Corvo to convince Garrett to leave, but the thread of fear, the terror that came with the thought of someone finding his hiding place and being completely unable to defend himself was easy to grab hold of and convince Garrett of the need to explore further.

In truth, Corvo had been restless sitting there in the dark, making no effort to make more sense of the situation. He needed to make a move, even if only for his own sanity, and suspected that it would do Garrett some good too.

“I don’t know,” Garrett said in return as Corvo crept ahead and checked the corridor around the corner for people who might be out and about, “I just _can._ I think it’s important.”

“Alright.” Corvo said as he returned to Garrett and followed, watching out of the corner of his eye as Garrett’s own right eye flared bright and then dulled, over and over again. He was searching for something. Although Corvo knew nothing about the eye, what it did, or how it had come to be, he knew by the way the man searched the corridors, skimmed the walls and the floor and the ceiling for… for whatever he was looking for, by the way the eye changed in how it looked, how it flared and shone with strict regularity.

Garrett had his mask up again, covering the lower half of his face despite the already heavily risky nature of their mission. He adjusted it as he crouched behind a corner, pulling it up and straightening the edges of it, pulling it tighter at the back to reduce the chances of dislodging it. His hood was up too, even though the afternoon was still warm, and Corvo could see him clenching and unclenching his hands as he walked. He wondered if the injuries he had sustained at the hands of the Whalers still troubled him, or if this was a compulsion he had developed, something he just _did_ to relieve tension and reduce anxiety.

Probably a bit of both.

Corvo could see Garrett’s breath in the scarf as he talked, when he breathed, the only indication that he actually _was_ breathing. He felt a pang of nostalgia. Garrett had been like this when Corvo first met him, too. He was quiet in everything that he did; when he walked, when he ate, when he drew breath. He wasn’t, however, a quiet sleeper. Not any more, anyway. Corvo was still grateful for the quiet, he’d had more than enough of his fair share of people talking at him while Emperor, dealing with riots, dealing with civil unrest, dealing with Overseers and guardsmen alike. It was a welcome change. The hangover that made his head ache and his gut churn was grateful for it too.

Something at the top of the back stairs caught Garrett’s attention as he peaked around the corner, and he started slightly. “Up there,” he said, pointing, “I see it.”

“Pipes?” Corvo asked, glancing at Garrett. He received a nod of confirmation.

Corvo followed Garrett closely as they made their way up the stairs. He noticed that Garrett tended to keep him within his line of sight at all times, walking diagonally to him, preferring to travel with Corvo in front and always out of arm’s reach. It pained him that Garrett clearly still didn’t trust him, but something told him that, despite all this, Garrett still trusted him a hell of a lot more than he trusted anyone else here. _That_ was worth something, in Corvo’s mind.

They stopped at the top of the stairs. Garrett abruptly stopped moving, holding a hand out behind him, which Corvo nearly bumped into. In the low light, Corvo could see the light blue from Garrett’s eye shining on the wood panelling, flickering on and off. Corvo wondered how long Garrett had been able to do this, how long he had been able to see things with his eye, how long it had taken him to control and get to grips with the power. Corvo had taken _months,_ months of falling from ledges that were just a _bit_ too high, months of propelling himself into the paths of guards rather than simply watching them from behind a wall, months of possessing people by accident rather than raising a rat swarm from thin air. It would be easy for anyone else to assume that these powers were intrinsic knowledge, but Corvo knew better. Garrett would have had to have honed his power.

Garrett walked off suddenly, as if he had forgotten that Corvo was there with him. Corvo took a moment to realise that he stood alone now, still staring up at the wall that Garrett had been studying, before the lack of conversation alerted him. He hurried after Garrett, still slightly crouched, amazed even now that Garrett was so quiet, so silent, that Corvo couldn’t actually tell whether he was there or not. Regardless, he was annoyed at Garrett’s failure to alert him of his departure.

“You could have told me you were going.” Corvo hissed through gritted teeth.

“Sorry. I forgot.” Garrett said in return, still staring up at the wall, walking along, following it with one hand and the flickering blue light of his eye. “We’re nearly there now.”

Indeed, they were now on the first floor of the manor, in the corridor that ran east-to-west bordering the bedrooms. This was dangerous. It was likely that there were too many people still in their rooms, who could come out at any minute, who could hear either Garrett or himself sneaking around outside. “Garrett.” Corvo whispered, trying to get his attention. No luck. Garrett was so engaged in what he was searching for that he didn’t even seem to notice the amount of danger that they were in.

And still, Corvo couldn’t find any indication that anything was even _there_ behind the walls. 

Garrett stopped suddenly at a door, yet again failing to announce his intentions. Corvo caught himself as he walked, abruptly coming to a stop so as not to walk into Garrett’s back, and grabbed ahold of the door frame to prevent himself from tripping over his own feet. Several more seconds passed as Garrett looked intently at the space of the wall above the door, then pulled his mask down and looked over at Corvo. There was an intensity in his eyes that Corvo hadn’t seen in _years._ Truly now, he was doing what he did best. Despite the soft light of the afternoon, his hood cast sharp shadows across his cheekbones and in his eye sockets, making him look gaunt.

“Here it is,” Garrett said in a voice that was barely audible, “Pipes. Leading in there.” He gestured at the door. Corvo simply looked at him.

There wasn’t much that Corvo could really do about the pipes, considering he couldn’t see them, and he was at a loss for what to do next. Garrett stared at him expectantly. He hadn’t actually thought of _what_ they’d do when they got here.

Instead, he knelt down at the door and looked through the keyhole. “You tried to pick this?”

Garrett nodded. “Burnt my lockpicks.”

“They… They _burned?”_ Corvo said, fighting to keep his voice low. After a few moments, when it was clear that Garrett was going to offer no explanation, Corvo simply sighed and returned his attention to the door. “Looks like a snowflake lock.”

Snowflake locks were notoriously hard to pick. Conceptualised by Piero Joplin in the days of the Loyalists, Corvo had thought he was joking when he had mentioned it. Apparently, they were notoriously difficult to design and even harder to pick, but Joplin had been unable to make one that was fully functional, so Jindosh had gained the plans and built them first. It would be nigh-on impossible for Garrett to pick this lock, and judging by Garrett’s burnt lockpicks, they were booby-trapped too.

“I have no idea.” Corvo whispered, then motioned, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the door at the end of the corridor, indicating to Garrett that they would be better served in a more private area. Instead, he found Garrett looking up at the wall again. Corvo didn’t have a chance to ask Garrett anything before he began to follow it, once again neglecting to tell Corvo what he was planning on doing next.

Garrett followed the wall for some time, travelling up the corridor then down the main staircase, where he crept down it, once again keeping Corvo within eyeshot. Judging by the way Garrett was looking around, without direction as he had done before, he had lost the wire in the wall and now was just guessing where it would appear again.

Wordless, they proceeded down to the ground floor. Corvo tried to ignore the movement of the Clockwork Soldier’s head following him as they continued down the corridor, and turned left into the scullery when the lighting of the guest area dimmed and they entered the servant’s quarters.

“There.” Garrett said, pointing up as if Corvo would be able to see what he was looking at anyway. Apparently he had found the wire again.

They eventually came to one of the kitchens, one that Lucy had mapped out some time ago, one they had investigated while trying to find an exit. Garrett walked to the corner of the room and looked down by his feet, then glanced over at Corvo again.

The wine cellar.

“We can’t go down there,” Corvo said firmly, “That’s where our deceased are.”

Garrett wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You dragged dead people through your kitchen?”

Corvo suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “We had nowhere else to put them and it’s cold enough to store them safely down there.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the trapdoor, kneeling down beside it, observing it, then pulling at the edges with his fingers. “I didn’t see this before. I assumed all the red lines were running _towards_ the room. It didn’t occur to me that one might be moving _away.”_ There was a creak, a groan of protest from hinges that badly needed oiling, then the trap door gave. Garrett hauled it open, took a moment to re-cover his mouth and nose with his scarf, then turned. “You _sure_ these bodies are keeping well?”

The smell hit Corvo and he covered his own mouth and nose with his hand. “No. I’m not sure.”

Garrett rolled his eyes and continued anyway, descending the ladder into the cellar where it suddenly became very cold. Condensation dripped from the walls, making the ladder slippery and dangerous. Corvo gripped onto the rungs with all his strength as he descended, then steadied himself as he reached the bottom. The floor didn’t appear to be much better.

He firmly ignored the two bodies in the corner as Garrett searched the room, weaving in and out of wine racks, the light from his eye flashing on and off periodically. Corvo watched Garrett from the other side of the room, watching the shadows as they stretched out across the floor, mimicking Garrett’s every movement, exaggerating them, stretching them until they became distorted and alien and barely recognisable as human.

The stench of decomposing bodies was almost overpowering. Although Corvo had brought death to his enemies, many times over, something about the reality of what came _after_ made him shudder. The thought of Theo and Bevis, two men he had known, who’d had their own lives and goals and hopes and dreams, and now they were here, wrapped up in bedsheets in a wine cellar, rotting. Dead meat.

He was jolted from his thoughts by an expression of surprise from Garrett, and he looked up, searching for what he had found. He stood by a rack on the far side of the room, hand outstretched for something that Corvo couldn’t _quite_ see, then he pulled on it.

There was an almighty rumbling noise and a loud _scrape._ Garrett and Corvo both followed the noise, looking to the floor where a flagstone had lifted slightly from the floor. Garrett knelt down without hesitation and lifted the flagstone, hefting it up and scraping it out of the way, pushing it to the side, and peering down into the darkness.

“Oh.” Garrett said, his voice suddenly very low. 

The tone sparked concern for Corvo almost immediately. He hadn’t, once he searched his memory, ever heard Garrett speak in that tone. His voice trembled slightly, betraying fear. _Fear_ wasn’t really something Corvo had known Garrett to experience much of, outwardly anyway. He was sure that Garrett worked very hard on concealing his emotions, hiding them, repressing them. Corvo understood - he had done enough of that in his own lifetime to know how it worked, and that was why Garrett’s tone worried him.

“What is it?” Corvo asked, hurrying over and kneeling down by the opening in the floor revealed by the flagstone. He noticed that Garrett was trembling slightly. The smell of death was even more intense here. He peered down into the darkness as Garrett shuffled off to the side and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Another pair of eyes greeted him at the bottom of the dark shaft, although they were hard to see at first. Wide, glassy, unseeing. Her mouth hung open in what looked like an expression of surprise, and her hair floated in water around her head like a halo, her blouse bubbling with air pockets that had become trapped in the flooding, her stomach swollen and bloated. There were no visible marks on her body, but by now, her face was grey, almost greenish. The passage that she lay in must have flooded with the rain that fell on the night of Theo’s death.

Corvo recoiled quickly, but he had already seen too much. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, willing himself not to vomit. Garrett looked like he was doing the same, his fingers interlocked over his head, pulling his head in towards his chest.

It was Giulia, Giovanni’s wife.

How callous to simply throw her body down a secret passage and forget about her. The thought of it, of the disrespect, made Corvo more sick than the image of her corpse. 

They sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity. Neither Garrett nor Corvo moved, unwilling to disturb their already sensitive stomachs, unwilling to leave and unwilling to stay. Out of the corner of his eye, Corvo could see Garrett rocking himself slightly. They were surrounded by death, and Corvo knew that if he didn’t make more of an effort to get himself out of this place, and quickly, he would soon be joining them.

_But who would tell Giovanni?_

“I think you should go back to the laundry room,” Corvo said after a very long time, his voice low and stunted by his reluctance to open his mouth and let more of the smell in, “Hide in there, lock it from the inside. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”

Garrett nodded, a few stiff jerks of his head, slid himself away from the opening in the flagstone, and shuffled off towards the door. Corvo listened to the noises of Garrett’s footsteps retreating, climbing the ladder back out of the wine cellar, and then he was left in silence. He heard the lapping of the water around Giulia’s body far below, the echoing waves in the passageway, the drips of what might be condensation in the roof of the passage landing in the water below, on her face.

Finally, he mustered up the strength to move. He planted both hands on the ground and used them to steady himself despite his legs that were now jelly. The stones that made up the walls of the wine cellar suddenly felt very slippery, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he realised that it might simply be the sweat pouring off his body, collecting in his palms and on the underside of his fingers that made it so.

As he left, he made a point of not looking at the bodies wrapped in sheets, speckled with blood. Climbing the ladder, he found himself moving much slower than usual, gripping onto the rungs _far too tightly,_ his joints, wrists, knees and elbows shaking violently. When he reached the top of the ladder, he closed the trapdoor, resisted the urge to sink to the ground in terror, disgust and dismay, and pushed himself onwards. 

His stomach gave out somewhere near the scullery, so he rushed on, found a toilet, and spent what felt like hours retching into the bowl, the image of Giovanni’s late wife refusing to leave his mind, and when he finished he sat on the floor, beneath the low lights, feeling the cold stone tile beneath his legs, trailing the lines of grout with his fingers. He should have known _better_ than to follow Garrett into the wine cellar, should have known better than to look down that shaft for long enough to take in all the gruesome details. He rested his head against the wall, staring off into space. What had they done to deserve something like this?

He needed to find Jacques. The Spymaster would know what to do.

 _‘You’re supposed to be the Emperor,’_ a voice whispered in his head, _‘You’re supposed to be the one who knows what to do.’_

Corvo brushed the thought off, got up, and flushed the toilet. Banging the doors closed behind him, he went to the simple row of porcelain sinks and splashed water on his face, rinsed his mouth out, once, twice, then three times. He glanced upwards, looking into the mirror just in front of him bolted to the wall and found a shadow of his former self, a pale, sweaty man with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes, puffy from the stress of fearing for his life. He knew he must stink, needed a bath more than he had ever done in his life, but he needed to tell the others. _Only then_ could he take time to calm down, wash himself, collect his thoughts, stop them racing.

He turned to leave, but stopped still. Something was moving out of the corner of his eye.

The tiles shrieked as he whipped around, turning on his heels. 

In front of him, Bevis was on the floor, silently writhing, flailing, his arms and feet slamming against the floor in a frenzied attempt at movement. He clutched his throat with one hand, his nails white with the force of the grip, the other reaching out towards Corvo, making eye contact, _pleading_ for help, begging for him to do something, to _save him._ Corvo’s heart leapt in his throat and he rushed to Bevis’s side, dropping to his knees to help him, but his hands met nothing when he lowered them to the thrashing man. The door banged behind him and Corvo turned wildly, shouting out for whoever had entered the room to _help him,_ but nobody was there.

When he turned back to Bevis, the man was gone.

He was alone in the toilets, his throat raw from shouting, his heart pounding in his ears and the leftover adrenaline shaking him from head to toe. His hands quivered in front of him, still knelt down on the cold tile floor, surrounded by droplets of water.

This couldn’t be happening. Why now? Why was he being tortured like this?

Slowly, slowly, he folded his arms back into his chest and shuffled back into one of the cubicles. Then, still shaking, he curled himself up on the floor, his knees drawn tightly up beneath him, tucked his head into his knees so he couldn’t see anyone or anything, and wept bitterly into his hands.

The sound echoed sadly around the room, but otherwise left him in silence.

* * *

By the time Corvo managed to leave the bathroom, it was evening.

He was still wobbly on his legs but felt significantly better than he had done earlier. The hours spent isolated in the toilets had, amazingly, done him some good. Maybe it was the ability to finally let his emotions out in their truest form, to not have to be so strong and put on such a front for everyone else that made him feel so much better, or maybe it was just that time had passed and the image of Giulia’s body was no longer so fresh. The image of Bevis still nagged at him, the silence of his thrashing and his sudden disappearance, it disturbed him greatly and he found himself questioning whether the stress finally had him losing touch with reality or not. Was he to call it a hallucination?

The thought of calling it that made him feel like he was going mad, so he decided to just call it an image. Probably triggered by stress. Obviously nothing to worry about, and even if it was, there wasn’t much he could do to stave it off while trapped in this house.

He worked his way up the grand staircase and made a beeline for Jacques’s room. He was laid on his bed, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wringing his hands anxiously, and didn’t appear to notice Corvo at first. A couple of moments passed before Corvo cleared his throat, and Jacques was abruptly jerked from his stupor, turning to look at Corvo, wholly unimpressed.

Corvo walked in and shut the door behind him. He didn’t need Giovanni to find out about his deceased wife by overhearing a conversation between Corvo and Jacques.

Jacques looked at Corvo then swung his legs off the bed in one swift motion, sitting up straight and motioning for Corvo to take a seat by the desk. He didn’t know why he obeyed, but Corvo did as he was told, drawing the chair up with a scrape and sitting down on it heavily. He could feel his clothes sticking to him. Jacques’s glare made him uncomfortable.

“I found Giulia,” Corvo began, deciding that the best approach would be a direct one, “It’s not good.”

Jacques paled and leant forward, his fingers interlocked, “Dead?”

Corvo nodded. “There’s a secret passage below the wine cellar. She’s down there, and it’s not pretty.”

“Shit.” Jacques spat. His nose wrinkled above his moustache, untrimmed and ungroomed like the rest of the occupants, his mouth downturned in dismay. “I suppose we’ll have to tell Giovanni, then.”

Corvo nodded solemnly. There really wasn’t any other way about it. Giovanni had become increasingly quiet and withdrawn over the past few days, and it had been quite clear that he had been ruminating on Giulia’s disappearance, trying to work out where she might have gone. Corvo had hoped that she’d been released like the rest of the guests at the party, but like everything else here, the worst case scenario had turned out to be the most accurate to life. He looked up at Jacques and found him playing with the cigarette case he always carried around. There was one left. He picked it up and rolled it between his fingers absentmindedly.

“I guess the real question is _how_ we tell him,” Jacques continued, more to himself than to Corvo. It was a good thing, too. Corvo had no idea what to tell him, same as Jacques. He was useless in this matter, so instead he grunted in agreement.

“Another thing is,” Corvo said after some time, “We don’t know what’s on the other end of that passageway. There could be something important. This could be our way out, but we’ll need to move Giulia’s body first because it’s blocking the way.”

Jacques cringed. “I’ll need to see more of this passageway before we do anything.”

“Take someone with you. You don’t want to be down there alone.”

Jacques stood, nodding. “I’ll take Lucy. Gods know I don’t want to expose her to something like this, but who else is there? Giovanni is out. Jindosh is too brash for something like this. Who else does that leave us with?”

“Suleiman,” Corvo said, “You should take him too.”

“Alright.” There was a pause, “You’re coming too, right?”

Corvo laughed, a dry, harsh laugh. “You’re joking. I’m not going back in there.”

“It’s really that bad, huh?”

It _was_ that bad. Whether it was the sight of the body or the smell, the way it had been casually discarded down a dark shaft and left to rot or the knowledge that he was next, Corvo was entirely averse to returning there, unless he _had_ to. It was possible that the passageway provided a way out, or a clue or _something,_ but until then…

Jacques grunted an “Alright,” and then left, escorting Corvo out of his room before shutting it tightly behind him. Jacques pulled a slip of paper out from his pocket, barely smaller than the very tip of his finger, then slipped it between the door and the frame at the very bottom near his feet.

Clever. A way of telling whether someone had been in his room or not. Corvo wondered why he hadn’t thought of that himself, before Jacques turned to Lucy’s room and knocked on the door. She answered quickly, and her face turned ashen as Jacques explained the situation.

“We need to tell him,” she said insistently after her mentor had finished, “He needs to know, now.”

“We don’t know what state she’s in,” Jacques said, “If she’s not… If she’s…”

“It doesn’t matter what state she’s in, we can’t improve it and we can’t turn back time. Best do it now and get it over with.”

Jacques opened his mouth to argue, but his thoughts were prematurely cut off by the opening of another door. A round-ish, moustachioed face peeked out, his eyes red, his face so pale it looked almost grey. Corvo felt his heart sink. There was no point in arguing now - Giovanni had made the decision for them simply by turning up. The corridor suddenly went very quiet.

Corvo decided to choose this moment to excuse himself and go to the bathroom where he couldn’t be disturbed. Although he still felt nauseous from his discovery down in the wine cellar, although he was still reeling and terrified, he was still very conscious of the fact that he reeked. Setting the bath running, he ensured that the door was locked tight behind him before he dared even to allow himself to think that he might have gotten away with never seeing the bloated corpse again.

The water steamed hot as it poured into the grand tub, more of a small pool than anything else, and he sat back on the bathroom floor as he had done earlier in the toilets. The air became warm and steamy and perfumed with the oils he had poured in when he first turned the taps on. When it was full, he discarded his clothes at the side of the pool and edged his way in, wary of the heat at first, but eventually becoming accustomed to it. His muscles relaxed as he sank in up to his neck and he closed his eyes, imagining none of this had happened, that he was still working with Suleiman to hide his research, that he was still trying to prevent the Empire from falling apart.

There was a distant wail somewhere in the house, a desperate, horrified scream of denial, and Corvo squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could will himself out of this place. Maybe in another world, Giovanni hadn’t just found the rotting corpse of his wife and they were happy in a sunny area of Serkonos. Maybe in another world, Jessamine and Emily were still here and none of this had happened.

Maybe.

* * *

Giovanni was notably absent from dinner. After Corvo had changed into his bathrobe and washed his clothes again, dinner had appeared in the dining room as it had done for the past four days. There was little conversation to be had, even if the _hadn’t_ just found the body in the passageway - they had exhausted all possible escape routes disregarding the cellar, they had talked at length about how to outsmart their captors, how best to keep themselves safe, who might be doing this to them and why. None of it mattered any more.

So there they sat at the ballroom table, five of them jointly avoiding the uncomfortable eye contact and ignoring the food that had been laid out for them. Corvo had picked up another flask of whiskey and was openly helping himself to it, drinking directly from the bottle. Lucy stared down into her plate, rocking back and forth slightly. Suleiman seemed the least affected, but even then, he still looked nauseous and shaky. Jindosh had apparently heard Giovanni’s screams and gone to find out what the commotion was about and been greeted with the sight of Giulia laying at the bottom of the pit. All his brash bluster had disappeared and even he had been disturbed.

During the day, he had checked in on Garrett to ensure he was still there, safe and well, and when he had knocked at the door, Garrett had poked his head around the door in greeting, presumably after checking through the keyhole that it was Corvo rather than someone more sinister, and his hair had been messy, his eyes drooping and tired from sleep, his movements clumsy. Satisfied that Garrett was safe, Corvo had left again to attend to other matters. He had noticed that the food he had left Garrett after breakfast was still uneaten.

He still worried about Garrett, even now, even after everything they had been through together. Corvo had no doubt that Garrett was more than capable of looking after himself, of getting himself enough food to survive after a fashion, but nevertheless his behaviour worried him. He found his mind drawn to Garrett as he sat at the dining table, staring out into space. What could he do to keep him safe in a place like this? The image of Giulia’s body at the bottom of the pit haunted him, and even though he tried to fight the thought off, he couldn’t help but imagine Garrett’s body instead. The thought made him desperate, made him want to scream and fight, so instead of staying here with the rest of them, he stood up, taking a plate of the stroganoff that had been left out for them, and left the room. Nobody else complained.

Giovanni’s point about sticking together seemed much more potent now. Corvo knew it would be a bad idea to separate himself from the group, and that at some point, he’d have to start thinking about acting on that idea. More importantly, he needed to convince Garrett to reveal himself. There was no way he was going to allow him to sequester himself in the laundry room; he was too easy a target, too weak, too exposed. If _anyone_ saw him entering or leaving the room, it would be all too easy for someone to break in and attack him.

In addition, Garrett’s eyes were the best of all of them. If someone was sneaking around and trying to avoid detection, Garrett would be able to spot them. He knew all the tricks in the book regarding breaking into places, finding secret passages, what to touch and what not to. His observation skills would be second to none. He would be an invaluable ally, if nothing else.

He ignored the Clockwork’s head as it followed him, rounded the corner and knocked on the door of the laundry room. The plate of food in his hand was rapidly cooling, the ceramic now only lukewarm to the touch. Several minutes passed. Corvo knocked again, growing impatient, and then he tried the handle.

The door swung open with ease.

That was odd. Although Garrett had left the door unlocked when Corvo had first found him here the previous night, it was reasonable to think that that was simply a mistake caused by the illness he had been suffering at the time. If Garrett had left the door open now, then he had opened it voluntarily. 

A quick check confirmed that Garrett was absent. None of the food Corvo had left for him had been eaten, although the jug of water had been emptied. That, at least, was a good sign. Corvo turned and clicked the door shut behind him again, wracking his mind. Where could Garrett have gone? He found it unlikely that he would have gotten himself into any trouble, considering there had been no sign of a struggle, either through noise or the contents of the laundry room.

As Corvo searched, he tried to suppress the anxiety he felt at the prospect of another death. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Bevis died, and that had occurred _another_ twenty-four hours after Theo died. Corvo’s intuition told him that another one was just around the corner. He needed to find Garrett, fast.

It seemed natural that the first place to check would be the garden, considering that the door out the back was only a few paces away from the laundry room. Corvo left the house via the old door with the tarnished handle and felt the cool evening breeze hit him in the face. He hadn’t actually realised how hot and stuffy it had been in the house, but the transition between inside and outside made him pause, made him stop and simply enjoy the evening air.

It took him a moment, but after a moment of scanning the overgrown garden, Corvo spotted Garrett standing by the shed, half-shrouded in its shadow, one hand over the masked chin, pondering. He placed the plate of food down on the porch bench, then approached Garrett, wading through the long grass. Garrett started as Corvo approached, stepping backwards with a gasp that was barely audible, then collected himself and shot Corvo a hard glare.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Corvo chuckled. “That’s _your_ job,” he said, resisting the urge to poke him in the ribs, “Aren’t you supposed to be the observant one?”

Garrett huffed and turned away from Corvo, returning to his study of the garden shed. For a few moments, Corvo watched Garrett as he circled the shed in small circles, catlike and graceful in his movements, but then noticed something. In the darkening air, he walked around to the front of the shed and checked the door. It had been locked shut before, he was sure of it. He had noted, several days ago, that the lock looked new in comparison to the rest of the building, that it was shiny and new, while the rest of the shed was almost dilapidated in appearance. 

And now the lock was gone.

“Did you do this?” Corvo asked, waiting for Garrett to return from his studies on the other side of the building.

“Do what?”

Corvo gestured to the place where the lock had been. “There was a lock here before, did you manage to get it off?”

Garrett shook his head. “No. How could I? My picks are useless now.”

That was true, but odd that the lock would simply disappear. Corvo took a step forward, his mouth suddenly dry, and laid a hand on the black, wrought-iron handle, feeling its rough bumps beneath his hand. Somewhere behind him, Garrett looked anxiously over Corvo’s shoulder, and when Corvo pulled at the door, there was some give, several dampened cracking sounds as the aged wooden fibres splintered under the stress, and then the door juddered open. It caught on the concrete base as Corvo pulled it all the way open, catching on the grass, and several beetles escaped from the other side of the frame and scattered like the puff balls from a mature dandelion, blown away in the wind.

The inside smelled musty, earthy. Although the smell of mould wasn’t intense enough to turn Corvo away, he backed away momentarily at the scent as it hit him in the face. He coughed at the cobwebs that floated in the breeze now wafting into the shed and removed a small spider that had fallen onto his shoulder.

The shed contained an assortment of gardening tools, a garden fork, a rake and shovel, some lumber, hessian bags filled with potting mix and ceramic planters. A light switch was mounted on the wall directly to the side of the door, so Corvo flipped it expecting little response, but to his surprise a light flickered on, dull and low in the early evening, banishing the shadows in the shed, illuminating all the insects that had made their homes in the rafters and the cracks in the walls.

“Odd.” Corvo caught himself whispering under his breath, and Garrett’s voice behind him made him jump in surprise.

“What’s odd?”

Corvo fumbled with his words. “Why would they lock the shed door if there’s nothing in here?”

Garrett gestured at the contents of the shed. “There are lots of things in here.”

“I mean nothing of note. Nothing out of place. Nothing that would arouse suspicion or answer any of our questions.”

Garrett fell silent for a moment, and when Corvo turned to face him again, he had disappeared. This was becoming a common occurrence now. Now satisfied that the garden shed contained nothing useful, he turned and flipped the light off as he left, finding Garrett outside the shed once again, studying the concrete foundations.

Corvo suspected that Garrett didn’t _quite_ trust him yet, not fully, although he could hardly blame him for it. With a couple of exceptions, Garrett had generally kept himself just out of arm’s reach, giving himself room to escape. If Garrett was anything like Corvo himself, his proclivity to trust Corvo would wax and wane over time, as different events happened, depending on his mood and his overall state of health. The discovery of Giulia’s body, for instance, would undoubtedly have pushed him away from Corvo slightly - their moment together in the laundry room the night before was clearly a one-off, not one Corvo should expect to be repeated any time soon.

“I noticed you didn’t eat any of that food,” Corvo said offhandedly. Garrett didn’t respond, pointedly continuing to circle the shed. “I brought you some more, just in case you’re hungry.”

“I’m not.” Garrett said shortly, then stopped his observations and turned, waded back through the long grass and headed for the door back into the house. Corvo followed him back inside, testing his Dark Vision once more, finding that out here it still failed to work. Oddly enough, it had been fine inside the house.

He followed Garrett into the laundry room, swinging the door shut behind him and switching the light on as they entered. Garrett seemed to have little to say to Corvo; maybe it was the shock of the discovery of Giulia’s body, maybe it was simple exhaustion and hunger, but he curled up in his nest of sheets as soon as he entered, shuffled away from Corvo, and laid down staring at him.

Corvo could tell that Garrett was slightly nervous at his presence, but something told him not to leave him alone. _Three_ deaths had already occurred in the house, and when the next one would come was a mystery - indeed, it seemed inevitable that someone else would die before they managed to escape. Corvo was _determined_ that the next victim would not be Garrett, so despite the thief’s clear displeasure at Corvo’s presence, he stuck it out, waiting for Garrett’s breathing to even out and his muscles to become lax.

Time passed. 

Over time, Corvo felt himself drifting off too. Eventually, the lights in the house shut off with a _bang,_ startling him awake from tortured dreams, leaving him panting, grasping for something in the darkness to ground himself with. In his panicked frenzy, he caught one of Garrett’s sheets with his hand and _pulled,_ disturbing the pillows at the top end of the nest, yanking them out of place. Garrett grumbled some half-formed words in his sleep, then turned over, oblivious to the disturbance.

After some time spent alone, anxiety lapping at the edges of his mind, Corvo allowed himself to drift once again, still sitting up against the wall, facing the door so that nobody would be able to get in without coming face-to-face with Corvo. The fact that he still didn’t have a weapon wasn’t something he allowed himself to worry about.

Nightmares plagued him. He was sure he heard voices in the dark, but when he awoke and focused on them, they disappeared without a trace. He reassured himself that it was nothing to worry about, probably just the pipes in the house expanding and contracting, people moving in the rooms above, not something to concern himself with. Footsteps. Whispers.

Were those real footsteps?

_Those were real footsteps._

Disoriented, he grasped at his surroundings, then allowed himself to fall asleep once again. More time passed.

He twitched.

A deafening _boom_ shook the house.

Corvo and Garrett were jolted awake, both crying out in their shared confusion and terror. Seconds passed while Corvo attempted to process what had just happened, and then a surge of adrenaline rushed through him, his stomach lurching, his fingers now numb and tingling. He knew that, somewhere in the dark, Garrett was looking at him, confused, but instead of reassuring Garrett, he jumped to his feet in one fluid motion and rushed for the door.

There were shouts from the floor above. Corvo sprinted, barefoot, to the locked ballroom doors and waited at the bottom of the stairs for Lucy, Jacques, and Jindosh who appeared promptly at the top of the stairs, their faces pale, sleepy, but terrified. Who were they missing?

_Giovanni and Suleiman._

“Where are the others?” Corvo shouted as the chanting began outside the door. The others descended the stairs, some robed, some still fully clothed.

“I don’t know,” Jacques shouted back above the din, “I haven’t seen them since dinner.”

Corvo cursed to himself, trying to think of a plan. They needed to find who had been attacked _now._ Although the thought seemed futile in Corvo’s mind, the possibility that they might save whoever had been chosen, whoever had been marked for death, was more compelling than any other thought in his mind.

_"Restrict the Restless Hands, which quickly become the workmates of the Outsider. Unfettered by honest labour, they rush to sordid gain, vain pursuits, and deeds of violence.”_

Garrett’s voice behind Corvo surprised him, and he turned abruptly, not expecting the thief to have revealed himself at all, let alone a time like this. He shot him a glare that he hoped conveyed the danger of the situation, but Garrett either didn’t recognise it or simply ignored it.

“The shed,” he breathed, talking through his teeth, his jaw clenched in anxiety, “The shed light is on.”

“Who are you?” Jindosh demanded, his hand clasped around his robe, keeping it closed, but Jacques shushed him and began to jog towards the door into the garden. The others followed as the chanting outside, all the different voices reciting the Stricture, and the screaming in the distance became louder.

_“Of what value are the hands that steal and kill and destroy? Instead, put your hands to the plow, the fork, and the spade.”_

The garden was almost pitch black. Corvo found himself stumbling and tripping over small rocks and dips in the ground as he ran full-pelt for the shed. Garrett had been right. The light was on, spilling warm yellow light onto the grass outside blowing gently in the wind.

Blood. Blood also spilled onto the ground, pooling in the dimples in the concrete and dripping onto the dirt below.

_“Even the lowliest labor that is rigorous squeezes the muscles as a sponge, rinsing impurities from the mind and body."_

A wild mess of black hair and a tweed jacket patched at the elbows greeted Corvo as he rounded the corner of the shed and peered into the room that was still full of cobwebs and the low yellow light. His spectacles lay on the floor, shattered, his nose streaming blood, and pinning him to the wall was a garden fork, spearing his neck.

The garden fork Garrett and himself had found earlier.

A wave of despair washed over Corvo and he resisted the urge to cry out, to scream in pain and fury and hopelessness. Suleiman had _been the key_ to securing Emily’s release, and now he had been taken from him too. Suleiman had been his _one chance_ and now, even that had been stamped out, like a candle in the dark. 

Suleiman’s arms were hanging limp at his sides. Bruising surrounded the entry points of the garden fork, and he stood slightly elevated above the floor, as if he had been pinned to the wall. Indeed, the garden fork was embedded to the hilt.

Corvo frantically checked Suleiman for signs of life, held the back of his hand just in front of his mouth and nose, checking for breath that might still miraculously come from his chest, and he was taken aback to find a response. Only the smallest of breaths, but a breath nonetheless.

“Suleiman!” Corvo called out, forcing his voice not to crack and betray his utter horror. He bent his knees slightly, meeting Suleiman’s barely-opened eyes from below, and caught a wry smile from the man.

He thought frantically for what to say next, but found nothing. What _was_ he supposed to say? It would be pointless to ask him if he was alright, if there was anything he could do. Judging by the pallor of Suleiman’s skin and the weakness in his arms, there were only minutes left for him.

Suleiman croaked at him, his head still hanging down useless over his chest. It looked like he was trying to say something, but there was a good chance his vocal cord had also been severed in the attack. It was a miracle by itself that he was still breathing.

“What can I do?” Corvo asked desperately, still holding Suleiman’s eyes best he could. Suleiman didn’t respond, but gurgled. Tried to cough, but failed.

Corvo looked to Jacques, his eyes desperate and pleading, but Jacques did nothing, simply staring at Suleiman in horror. The others stood around them in an awkward congregation, unsure of what to do, whether to try and get Suleiman down or to leave him, to avoid the risk of pulling the fork out and killing him outright of blood loss.

There was a grunt and Corvo jumped as, in one last burst of energy, Suleiman grabbed his hand and held it tightly, his grip vice-like, one last comfort on the brink of death. Corvo clasped his other hand around Suleiman’s, enclosing it in warmth, hoping against hope that it was doing something, _anything_ to reassure him. 

There was movement in-between the warmth of Corvo’s hands. He loosened his grip, and found Suleiman tapping the amulet-like object Corvo had stored under his wrapped hand, given to him by Suleiman himself the previous day. _‘Don’t forget it’_ the gesture seemed to say, and Corvo nodded in response, ensuring the movement would be barely visible to any bystanders.

Suleiman seemed relieved. He allowed his muscles to relax, his eyes to close. His head fell forward, what little support his neck had been offering previously giving out, and he fell still.

Silence.

A dry laugh cut the air, barely audible. Then, in one sudden movement, Suleiman’s body dissolved into a cloud of ash, spilling around the garden fork that had previously been embedded in his neck, and fell to the floor where it cascaded across the concrete like a great grey wave, and then vanished. The spectacles still lay on the floor, cracked and bent from where they had fallen, and the fork still sat, stuck between the wood that made up the walls of the shed, but otherwise, nothing remained of Suleiman.

He had simply disappeared. Dissolved into a cloud of ash.

A strong smell had been left behind by the process, whatever it was. Although Corvo knew that it would be unfamiliar to most of the people standing in or around the shed, he recognised it all too well.

It smelled like the Void.

Corvo stood for a moment, as if stuck to the floor, unable to move, unable to speak or even to think. What was he supposed to make of this? What was it supposed to mean? Jacques and Lucy stood around him, their mouths still open in surprise at the turn of events, the light flickering in the darkness of the night.

After some time, Corvo finally managed to take a step back, trying to mentally separate himself from what had just happened, trying to disengage himself from all the questions that had now sprung up in his mind, buzzing at him like bloodflies. He turned to Jacques, who looked just as clueless as Corvo felt, and Lucy with her reddened eyes.

Where was Jindosh?

There was a shout from outside.

“You bastard!” Jindosh shouted, his entire body leaning forwards as if he were about to spring into an attack, pointing at a small, slim figure standing in the grass, cloaked in black. _“You_ did this, you’ve been hiding from us all along so you could pick us off one-by-one, haven’t you?”

Garrett didn’t respond, but backed off quietly. Jindosh ignored the reluctance to engage, and followed him, his shouting growing louder by the second.

“Why didn’t you just own up to it? Why are you doing this? What makes you think you have the _right?”_

“Jindosh!” Corvo called out across the garden, trying to calm him down, “Jindosh, he hasn’t done anything. Leave him alone.”

“Bullshit.” Jindosh spat as Corvo approached the pair. “He’s been _hiding_ from us this entire time. You couldn’t _get_ any more suspicious.”

“He has an alibi,” Corvo said, making his voice as calm as he possibly could under the circumstances, trying not to match Jindosh’s borderline-hysterical accusations, “He was with me the whole time.”

“Then _you’re_ in kahoots with him!” Jindosh shouted again, “You’re not better than him! You want something, and you’re killing off the rest of us to get it!”

The screaming in the distance suddenly seemed very loud, and Corvo’s patience was gone. He took several quick steps towards Jindosh, but he ignored Corvo’s threatening posture, and turned back to Garrett.

“You deserve to _die_ for this.”

And with that, he produced a knife from somewhere beneath his gown, spun it as it glinted dangerously in the light of the moon, sprung forward with one deft leap and attacked.


	13. Day 4, The Lying Tongue: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, thanks to all of you for your patience. Just a warning that the next few chapters might be a bit delayed because the next few weeks are gonna be hectic, but hopefully soon I'll get back into a regular posting schedule. Don't forget to check my Tumblr for updates :)
> 
> For those of us interested, we're about two-thirds of the way through this story now, so still got a fair few chapters to go.
> 
> Another quick warning for (kinda) torture during this chapter. Cheers all!

Corvo cried out in panic and jumped forward, rushing to intercept Jindosh as he flew at Garrett.

In the light of the moon and the dull orange glow of what appeared to be fires raging in the distance, Garrett’s face was visible, his eyes wide open in terror, his teeth clenched and his muscles stiff as he leapt backwards _just_ in time as Jindosh’s knife cut the air where he had just been stood with a _swish._ Jindosh drew back, preparing himself to attack again as Garrett continued to back away, and then _lunged,_ catching Garrett’s upper arm by the shoulder. 

Garrett cried out. Corvo continued to track Jindosh, wary of the knife that he was slashing wildly through the air. Cloth slipped through his hands as he tried to grab Jindosh by the scruff of his neck, but Corvo’s hands were sweaty and slick, and he escaped Corvo’s hold without trouble.

Somewhere in the darkness there was a thump, and out of the corner of his eye, Corvo saw Garrett sprawled out on the floor. The ground was obscured by long grass and uneven at best, covered with rocks, rodent burrows and other debris. Garrett must have tripped as he stumbled back while avoiding Jindosh’s attacks. 

“I’ll take great pleasure in cutting you up and taking a better look at that eye of yours,” Jindosh said, his voice half amused, half furious as he pounced on Garrett. The thief scrambled backwards through the clumps of grass, searching for footholds to push himself against, gasping in panic, but Jindosh was on him in the blink of an eye, aiming an attack at his throat. Garrett lifted his forearm and deflected the blade just in time for the attack to slide off and land on the ground.

Corvo saw an opening. He hurried forwards and tackled Jindosh, pushing him to the ground as Jacques and Lucy joined him. Jindosh rolled to the right, slipping from Corvo’s grip and struggled, pushing himself to his knees in a futile attempt at either resuming his attack or escaping. Corvo lunged again, wary of the knife that Jindosh still held. He ducked below another attack, then _launched_ himself forward, catching Jindosh in the stomach. A soft _‘oomph’_ told him that he had met his mark, and this time he pinned him.

Turning back, Corvo skimmed the garden, resisting Jindosh’s frenzied shouts and kicks, looking for Garrett. The thief was halfway to his feet several paces behind him, looking as if he were preparing to simply disappear into the shadow. His face was still panicked, his breathing still ragged and quick, but the moment he began to stumble back towards the house in the darkness of the night, there was another _thump_ and a terrified cry.

Corvo was still busy trying to hold Jindosh down to get Jacques off Garrett, but it wouldn’t be an attack like it had been before. Garrett yelled, almost incomprehensible with fury and terror, kicking violently against Jacques and the dirt beneath him. 

Still on top of Jindosh, Corvo took his wrist and _squeezed_ until something gave in his grip, there was a dull _crack_ and Jindosh cried out, dropping the knife. Lucy rushed in and picked the knife up, holding it securely in her own hands, standing several paces away so Jindosh wouldn’t be able to get it back.

“Put it in the shed, Lucy! See if you can find some rope in there!” Jacques shouted, still struggling with Garrett, then grunted as a hand came free and made contact with his face. Blood burst from his nose and cascaded down over his mouth. Lucy did as he said, depositing the knife on one of the workbenches, finding a roll of garden twine, then ran back towards her mentor. “Get him. He’s weak, restrain him until Corvo and I have Jindosh on his front.”

Lucy followed her mentor’s instructions, taking over and pinning Garrett to the floor best she could. As Jacques said, he was weak. Corvo had told him earlier that day that not eating enough would make him weak and incapable of fighting if circumstances came to it, and now he was paying for his mistakes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt pity for Garrett, but knew he was in no real danger here. The worst he would suffer would be a few bruises and scrapes, and Lucy was a soft touch at best.

Jacques arrived to relieve Corvo from his struggles with Jindosh, throwing himself at his feet and restraining them. Corvo pinned Jindosh’s hands above his head, clasping them together with an iron grip, ignoring the indignant shouts.

“Not so brave without your Clockworks, are you?” Corvo said, revelling in Jindosh’s anger, then motioned to Jacques. Together, they lifted him up and flipped him so his chest and stomach were pressed flat to the floor. Lucy tossed Jacques the twine at his request, and Corvo pinned the wriggling hands - one of them still useless and stiff from the fractured wrist - to his back and crossed them over. The twine wasn’t the strongest material out there, but it was thin, so with every escape attempt Jindosh would be duly punished with the thin roughness biting into his wrists. Nevertheless, Corvo was not one to take chances. He wrapped the twine several times over, running it in-between the wrists, tied several knots to keep it truly stationary, then began to work on his feet. There, he bound the individual ankles by themselves, and ran several turns of twine connecting them. This way, Jindosh would be able to walk by himself, but his feet would be restricted from moving too far apart; in short, they were lashed loosely. This would prevent him from running, would restrict his foot movements to awkward walking, would trip him up if he walked too fast, and also had the pleasant unintended consequence of preventing him from kicking Jacques in the face. Corvo sat back on his knees, his heart only now beginning to slow down, and observed Jindosh.

“Think that’s enough?” Corvo asked Jacques.

“Only one way to find out,” Jacques said, then released his grip on Jindosh’s legs, “Try to get up.”

Jindosh didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to lie face-down in the dirt, his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. He turned his head to the side, allowing himself to breathe, the light from the shed throwing his face into sharp relief. Turning his head to Garrett and Lucy several paces away, he struggled to his feet, his knees groaning. He was getting old.

“You can let him go now.” Corvo said to Lucy as she continued to pin Garrett.

“It _really_ would be best to ask him a few questions first,” Jacques said, sitting on the ground just behind the pair, his arms resting on his knees, panting, “Nothing intense, just to work out what he’s doing here. Take a statement. Standard stuff.”

Corvo turned to him and gestured in annoyance. “Take a statement? Jacques, you’re not the police in here, there are _six_ of us and he’s done _nothing_ wrong. Surely we can work this out without making a mockery of the concept of justice too?”

Jacques sighed, then rose to his feet and sidled over to Corvo, his face dark. “You think the Abbey bastards who trapped us in here want us to work out our disputes like civilised people, or would they rather we all went feral and tore each other to shreds and lost sight of what’s actually going on here? Which would make their jobs easier in killing us all off?”

“I can vouch for him.”

“Corvo, I _trust you,_ maybe more than I trust anyone else. But this one?” He gestured to Garrett who was still on the floor, still trying to worm his way out of Lucy’s grip, “This one I don’t trust, and I don’t trust him because I don’t _know_ him. The more we know about this situation, the better our chances at getting out. The more we know about him, the better.” A pause. Corvo continued to scowl at Jacques. “If it makes you feel better, you can stay with us the whole way.”

Corvo sighed. Looking down at Garrett still on the floor, he could see him shaking visibly, and his posture was rigid. It was obvious to anyone that he was terrified.

“Alright,” he said, relenting, “If you want to play the hero, you do that, but you’ll be lucky if he answers you.”

_Lucky if he doesn’t steal that last cigarette right out of your pocket._

“Good man.” Jacques said, then met Lucy and helped her get Garrett off the ground without risking a runaway attempt. Garrett didn’t resist, but he didn’t do anything to _help_ them, either. He remained still as a statue, his teeth clenched, his eyes trained on the floor, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Corvo could feel his hatred seething, radiating out.

Jacques walked to the shed and observed the garden fork still lodged in the wall for a moment, then picked up the knife Jindosh had somehow managed to get his hands on, then returned to the rest of the group. He passed the knife, a frighteningly sharp instrument with a whale bone handle, to Corvo and worked his way across several clumps of grass and stones to Jindosh. “Don’t walk too close to us with that thing. I don’t want either of these getting their hands on it.”

Corvo did as he was told. The house was still dark at this point in time. It couldn’t have been much later than midnight, and even out here in the garden, illuminated by moonlight and the light from the shed, it was difficult to see much more than basic shapes silhouetted against the wall or the ground. Lucy and Jacques hauled Garrett to his feet despite his best attempts at shaking them off, then Jacques moved to Jindosh and yanked him off the ground to a cry of pain. Corvo ignored Jindosh and walked to Garrett. It wasn’t possible to see his face in the darkness, but he knew he was scowling.

In a way, it made sense that Jacques felt the need to detain Garrett. The circumstances demanded that they explore all avenues of potential escape, question those who, for whatever reason, may know something about the house or its secret passageways in and out. Garrett had been hiding all this time, and he’d made no secret of his desire to avoid communicating with the other occupants up until now, so he was likely to be a flight risk. Still, it seemed rather unfair that Garrett would be tied up and hauled off for the grave crime of being attacked by another person.

“Are you alright?” Corvo asked as they picked their way across the garden and in through the door leading into the house.

Garrett grunted, a low grunt that seemed more to be of consternation than of confirmation, but otherwise said nothing. He fought weakly against Lucy’s arms, yet failed to break her hold. 

“He’s not going to hurt you, I promise.” Corvo said, hoping it would go some way to alleviating Garrett’s anxiety, “I’ll be there the whole time.”

It seemed unlikely to pacify him, but what else was there to do? He _wanted_ to prove Garrett’s innocence to the others because he was sure of it; they were unlikely to believe Corvo’s word only, and they deserved to know the truth too. Corvo himself had double-checked many of Lucy’s maps _precisely_ because it would be too easy for her to make a mistake or, and the concept was painful, that she might be hiding something too. He _did_ trust her, mostly. It just seemed silly to discard the idea without even a little thought. So when he considered it from Jacques’s and Lucy’s perspective, he could see that they would be anxious about gathering their own evidence too.

Corvo had another plan as well. He wanted to integrate Garrett into the rest of the group. He didn’t expect him to work particularly closely with them or tell them everything, but whatever Garrett had going on that allowed him to see through the walls as he had done earlier would be of huge benefit to everyone else collectively. If it meant that Garrett got them off his back as well, if it meant that they would stop searching for him and he would feel even marginally safer in his laundry room, it would be worth it. 

Surely, the long-term gain would be worth the short-term discomfort. And if anyone was going to get them out of this place, it would be Garrett.

They proceeded, working their way through the main hallway and up the grand staircase, then along the corridor. They entered the library and proceeded to the very end of the room, past the rows and rows of bookcases, and came out in a spacious area now devoid of shelves. There were several closed doors on the far wall, beneath a large mural that spanned from wall-to-wall depicting myths and legends famous in Gristol. Corvo wondered briefly if Garrett was familiar with any of the Dunwall legends, but the thought quickly disappeared as Jacques stopped outside one of the doors, still holding on securely to Jindosh’s arms. 

Jacques turned to Lucy, who still hung onto Garrett. “Take him into one of the rooms and sit with him. We’ll need to ask this one some questions first.”

Lucy nodded and walked into one of the smaller rooms with Garrett, who was clearly grinding his teeth at this point. There was an almost apologetic look on Lucy’s face, but she followed her orders anyway. Corvo doubted that she would give him any trouble, and reminded himself to go and check up on them after most of the questioning had been done. The idea of leaving Garrett alone where he might feel unsafe with a stranger left a bitter taste in his mouth, especially when their relationship was so tenuous in the first place, but all he could really do was hope Garrett would understand.

He waited for Lucy to herd Garrett into one of the rooms, and then followed Jacques into the one next door. The room was tiny, with a flat desk facing one wall, a single chair sitting behind it. Corvo pulled the chair out and dragged the desk across the floor so there was space on both sides for people to sit and face each other, and retrieved two more chairs from the larger library room. By the time he got back, Jacques was manhandling Jindosh’s hands back over his head so they could sit on the desk in front of them but left his feet tied to prevent further escape attempts. Corvo dragged the two chairs in, ignoring the groaning sound they made as they slid across the floor, and he and Jacques both sat down when they were in place. Both Corvo and Jacques sat on one side of the desk, and Jindosh sat opposite, facing them. The curve of his mouth indicated disdain and anger.

There was a moment of silence as Jacques regarded Jindosh, matching his expression.

“Where did you get this?” he finally said, holding the knife in front of him so Jindosh could see it, the tip held between the fingers of one hand and the handle in the other. He twirled it slightly and as the knife caught the light, it glinted dangerously.

Jindosh said nothing. He sat back in his chair, arms stretched out in front of him, staring at a knot in the wooden desk top, pointedly ignoring Jacques and Corvo’s presence. Corvo could practically see the gears turning in his head, maybe looking for a way out, maybe thinking of a cover.

Several moments passed. Corvo could feel Jacques becoming irritated. He repeated the question, but there was no response.

None of this made any sense. Jindosh was a smart man. Not quite as smart as he had been before Corvo fried his brain, but still clever. He was fundamentally a logical being, and for him it was second nature to jump from conclusion to conclusion, so why would he act so impulsively, to attack Garrett out of the blue, without friends, support or protection?

 _Not_ out of the blue. He had thrown a lump of debris at Garrett when he had first been spotted in the ballroom vent several nights ago - he had been aggressive from the very start, accusing Garrett of this and that at every possible opportunity. Apparently, he was not one to start a fight in person; he had designed a veritable army of Clockwork Soldiers to provide the muscle he lacked personally. Obviously, here he was unable to rely on automatons to protect himself and had no way of creating more, but even then, there were better ways of keeping oneself safe. Garrett had been doing that himself. Why not Jindosh?

Was it because his arrogance had led him to become complacent? He mentioned in the Clockwork Mansion that nobody had ever successfully broken in and lived to tell the tale, and Corvo didn’t need to think too hard to work out that these robbers, these murderers and these other assorted criminal types, had never actually seen Jindosh’s face, unless he had felt like tormenting them personally, or experimenting on them. Maybe he had simply become detached from the reality of a fight?

It was also possible that he had been acting out of panic and terror, that the aggression was coming from a place of fear. Corvo knew, from all his years of hunting men, of tracking them down and murdering them one-by-one, that fear drove people to unpredictable acts and responses. Until a man was afraid for his life, it was almost impossible to predict what he would do next, what lengths he would go to to protect himself - whether he would run, bargain and bribe, throw his acquaintances under the bus or simply attack. It was impossible to tell whether he would remain level-headed and calm or dissolve into panic or even delusions. Delusions that would prompt men like Jindosh to attack those he considered untrustworthy.

So was it panic? Detachment? _And where did he get that knife?_

Jacques finally relented and placed the knife down on the table, shifting it off to the side, and when he spoke, his tone was much gentler than it had been before. “Kirin, you know that if we work together here, we’re much more likely to escape with our lives. You don’t need me to tell you that, though - you know already.”

Jindosh didn’t look up, but by now he had stopped struggling.

Jacques continued. “If there’s anything you’re being threatened with, any blackmail they’re using on you to prevent you from telling us something, I can have whatever info they have on you destroyed as soon as we get out, no questions asked. That is, of course, contingent on us _getting_ out in the first place. If we get out in one piece, that evidence will be destroyed and nobody will ever know. If not, there’s no telling whether that evidence will somehow find its way out and your name will be besmirched for the rest of time.”

Once again, Jindosh said nothing.

“Did they, perhaps, promise you a way out of here if you did something for them? Because if you’ve been working for them, when we get out we can protect you from them and you’ll be in a much stronger position. You can move to Morley or Tyvia and start over, and you will be safe.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Corvo and his stomach lurched. Jindosh had just been caught with a _knife._ He had been sitting in the ballroom on the night that Bevis had died, alone. He had been left unchecked with Bevis’s glass, and he would have had more than enough time to poison it if he so wished. Corvo had been asleep when Suleiman was attacked, yet by the time the cannon had gone off, he was still alive, albeit barely. If Jindosh had some kind of agreement with their captors, it was plausible that they would have held off on the cannon to allow him to leave the scene of the murder. In fact, it made perfect sense. Had Jindosh been lying when he said he was unable to interface with the Clockwork Soldier, or had he been playing with it in the middle of the night, adjusting settings and tuning its performance? Was what they were seeing with the automaton an indication of what was to come? If it was to spring to life, going on a violent rampage like in the Clockwork Mansion, it would automatically ignore Jindosh, sparing him by default. 

And that wasn’t all. Jindosh had seen Corvo as he picked up the butter knife in the ballroom several days prior. He had seen him as he slid the knife up his sleeve and walked out with it. If Jindosh _was_ the one who murdered Theo, it wouldn’t have taken long for him to thoroughly search Corvo’s room and attack Theo while the rest of them were elsewhere, looking for him. The realisation left a nasty feeling in his stomach. Jindosh _couldn’t_ have thrown Theo’s body down the stairs, but there was no discarding the possibility that the murder and the act of throwing Theo down the stairs happened at two separate times.

Was someone else in on it?

Corvo felt sick at the realisation, although he wasn’t sure why. Jindosh had attempted to murder Corvo himself, had caused untold misery through his role in the coup several years prior. Something just felt… off. Like it was _dirty._ Sneaking around, killing people when they least expected it, and they were within such a small space. He was so close.

And now, Jindosh had been caught attacking another member of the party with a knife.

He had been very forceful about his accusations, had been so insistent that Garrett was the one who was hiding something. He had pushed and pushed and _pushed_ until the rest of the guests were half-way to agreeing with him. He had been _deflecting blame._

Jacques’s voice pulled his roughly from his thoughts. “Are you alright, Corvo? You look very pale.”

Corvo half-nodded, but then looked to Jindosh. “Why did you kill them?”

Jindosh paled. He stuttered and tripped over his words as he talked. “Why… Why did I kill _whom?”_

“Theo, Bevis, Suleiman, even Giulia. Why did you kill them? Did the people on the outside ask you to?”

“What in the name of the Void…?” Jacques asked, dumbfounded, turning to Corvo, “That’s quite an accusation.”

“Jindosh was in the ballroom before me on the night Bevis died.” he turned to the man now sitting in front of him, pale. “You had more than enough time to poison his glass. Why would you kill him if he was funding you?”

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” Jindosh said, “I didn’t. I didn’t kill him.”

“How are you so sure that the man you attacked is responsible for all this, when _you’re_ the one with a knife on your person?”

Jindosh shook his head violently, now looking more panicked than angry and dismissive. 

“Two of us checked the kitchen when we first came here, and both of us confirmed there are no knives there, Nobody else has happened upon a knife in the last four days, it seems clear to me that you got that knife elsewhere, or somebody gave it to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Jindosh spat, his face turning red. Corvo couldn’t help but notice he had failed to offer an explanation for where and how he had obtained the weapon, so Jacques took over once more, steering the interview towards other things - ones that might be more productive.

“Why did you attack the man in black?” Jacques said calmly, his fingers interlocked, hands sitting on the desk.

Jindosh pursed his lips, but this time he _did_ reply. “People are dying and he hasn’t shown himself or proved his innocence.”

Jacques scoffed and sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s no reason to attack people at random, is it? Do you know him?”

“Of course not.” Jindosh said. “I don’t associate myself with people like _him.”_

“And you’re sure you know nothing about why we’ve been trapped in his house or the deaths we’ve experienced these past few days?”

“I’m sure.” Jindosh insisted.

“Then what were you doing in the ballroom just before Bevis was poisoned?”

Jindosh went beetroot red and spluttered. “I was _reading._ It was completely innocent, I can assure you.”

“What were you reading?”

The question appeared to have taken Jindosh by surprise. “I can’t remember.”

Jacques frowned. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I read a lot of books. I don’t remember the ones I find dull. Is that somehow incriminating?”

Something caught Corvo’s attention. He could have sworn that Jindosh’s posture had been different when Jacques first began interrogating him; now he was leaning slightly to the side, his bound hands pulling his shoulders to the left, and he was working the bindings with his hands. It was barely noticeable in how subtle the movements were, but it was there. The knife that Jacques had put down sat to his right, and Jindosh’s left.

“Jacques!” Corvo cried as Jindosh moved. 

His hands, the unholy combination of pink flesh and white ceramic shot out and made a wild grab for the knife that Jacques had left on the table. Corvo felt his heart lurch into his throat and prepared himself to jump backwards, but Jacques let out a growl and got there first. He closed his hand around the handle of the blade and in less than a second, he had snatched it up and slammed it, point first, into the back of Jindosh’s left hand, pinning it to the table.

Jindosh howled and clutched the damaged hand with his healthy one, tears already collecting in the corners of his eyes. Blood oozed up at the border between the wound and the blade, seeped out from beneath his hands, and still Jacques had his hand wrapped securely around the handle. There was a moment where Jindosh’s agonised cries filled the air, and Jacques began to turn the blade _ever so slightly,_ eliciting even louder screams.

“Where did you get the knife from?” Jacques said, his voice suddenly very low and very quiet, his eyes dark.

Jindosh replied in a breathy, pained voice. “I was given it.”

“By whom?”

“The Abbey of the Everyman.”

Jacques frowned again, but kept his grip on the handle. “When did they give you it, and how?”

Jindosh had his teeth gritted so hard that it was difficult to understand the words that were coming out of his mouth. “It was in a panel, in the back of the Clockwork. Found it on… the first day. Came with… with a note.”

“What did it say?”

Jindosh fell silent, breaking himself up with the odd huff of air, a groan, a cry. He looked like he was biting his tongue. Jacques twisted the blade again until there were cracking sounds as the metacarpals bowed and then broke, and Jindosh screamed.

_“What did it say?”_

“It said they would get me out, alive, if I proved myself -- please stop, _please!”_

Jacques stopped twisting the blade, but his fingers remained around the handle, lightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought it meant I had to save you. I didn’t realise until Theo died that there might be a killer on the loose.”

Corvo paled and turned to Jacques, confused. Jindosh _had_ had good intentions, but he had certainly not gone about it in the right way, and that was even _if_ he was telling the whole truth. In addition, something about Jacques’s demeanour was scaring him. Corvo withdrew from Jacques slightly, putting some distance between them.

Jacques seemed to notice Corvo’s anxiety and turned to him. “I’m the Royal Spymaster, Corvo. This is my job.”

And it was true. It _was_ his job. But he couldn’t help but feel like he had suddenly been transported to those terrible six months in Coldridge, enduring burnings, whippings, torture under the instruction of Hiram Burrows. That torture had left him with lifelong scars, both mental and physical, with pain he still felt to this day. He suddenly felt himself growing very hot, and he could smell burning flesh. His own burning flesh. Hear his own screams in Jindosh’s.

Corvo took the opportunity to excuse himself from the disturbing scene and retreated to the other end of the library, leaving and closing the door behind him. It was some small mercy that here he could no longer hear Jindosh’s screams, but they still rattled around his head, transforming into the voices of Burrows, Campbell, and then the other Loyalists; Havelock, Martin, Sam’s disappointed voice.

_“You’re the worst of them all, Corvo.”_

He sat down with his back to the wall, leaning heavily, panting. It was obvious to him that this distress had been triggered by the stress of fighting for his own survival in this house, not knowing whether or not he would be next, if he would be able to keep Garrett safe, but that didn’t make it any easier. How much worse would it be for Garrett, sitting with Lucy in the room next door to Jindosh, hearing his screams as clear as day?

Corvo took a couple of minutes, composing himself and regaining his control over the situation, waiting for the panic to dissipate. It was _hard_ for him, so hard, yet he had to keep going. There had to be a light at the end of this tunnel.

All he had to do was find it.

And after a while, he stood back up, brushed himself off, and went to find Garrett.

* * *

Garrett hadn’t expected the man who had attacked him to begin screaming so soon after he was taken into the other room. The noise grated and ground at his mind, his eardrums threatening to burst under the noise, winding him up into fear and then terror. He covered his ears and wished himself away from it, squeezing his eyes tight shut, too fearful to try and escape under the threat of similar treatment to the other man, yet too fearful to bring himself to terms with his current situation.

Corvo had _said_ they wouldn’t hurt him. He had _said_ that he would stay with Garrett the whole way, and yet... 

He had been abandoned at the first opportunity, or it had seemed like it.

Once or twice he dared himself to look up at the young woman on the other side of the table, and when he did, she met him with a weak, apologetic smile. She tried to make conversation, but Garrett opted not to respond, turning the possibility of escape over and over in his mind.

The memory of his own torture was still far too strong, the wounds far too fresh. It had been years, yet some days it felt like he was still in that damp little cell, awaiting his death. He had tried so hard to move away from that experience, tried to block the memories from surfacing, tried to stave off the nightmares by spending days out on the rooftops to regain some semblance of control, and now it seemed like he had been yanked right back. It was very possible now that all his progress was to be put to waste.

He rocked slightly. Time passed, there were more screams, and then he heard a door slam, footsteps down the main library room. The woman had tried to bring some light to the small room by placing an oil lamp down on the table, but the shadows still danced around the corners, reaching out to him. He got lost in his own head, wondering whether he should make a break for freedom or not, and then the footsteps were back.

The squeak of the door hinges made him jump, snapping him back to the present. Corvo poked his head around the door, then shuffled in and closed it behind him. He sat next to the woman and looked at Garrett, smiling slightly. His eyes were red.

How could he smile at a time like this?

“I think we caught our murderer,” Corvo said, half at the woman and half at Garrett, “He just told us the Abbey’s been in contact with him. They gave him that knife. Jacques is just trying to extract more information. By the way, Garrett, this is Lucy.”

Lucy waved at Garrett, but seemed distracted by the information. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain later. I think Jacques is just finishing with Jindosh now, but maybe if we keep him under lock and key, these murders might stop. It’ll buy us some time.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up, but Garrett remained anxious. It was some small consolation that they believed they had gained some more insight as to what was going on, but the screaming from Jindosh still worried him. How did he know he wasn’t going to be next?

Corvo appeared to notice Garrett’s worry and gestured to him. “Idiot tried to attack us, so we defended ourselves. Trust me, that won’t happen to you, you’ll be fine.”

Garrett highly doubted that, but he played along anyway. Perhaps he could convince Corvo to let him out and then never see him again. He had betrayed and lied to him twice now - there was no way of guaranteeing he was, indeed, an ally. In Garrett’s mind, it was far better to have no allies than untrustworthy ones.

More time passed and eventually the screaming died down. The door to the next room opened and closed, there was a rattling noise as Jacques jammed a chair beneath the handle, then he shimmied around the door and tried to find a space with Lucy and Corvo. Finding there was none, he joined Garrett on his bench and smiled at him. Garrett couldn’t help but notice there was still blood on his hand, and it probably wasn’t his own.

“Sorry about that,” he said jovially, “That was… unpleasant. You shouldn’t have had to hear that.”

The words didn’t do much to make Garrett feel better about the situation, but Jacques didn’t appear to have a weapon on his person, and that was more valuable than anything he could have said. 

“What do you need to ask him?” Corvo asked from across the table as Garrett scooted as far away from Jacques as was possible despite the small space. “We need to get this over and done with as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course.” Jacques said, and turned to Garrett, his voice soft, “Do you, or have you ever known, the man who attacked you?”

Garrett was silent at first. He didn’t want to play along with this little game, he wanted to leave and be alone. He didn’t want to be interrogated by people who had no right to interrogate him, but when he looked over at Corvo, he found the man nodding at him very slightly, so he made do with a slight shake of his head.

Jacques paused for a moment, then shrugged and continued. “What are you doing in this house? Why are you here?”

It was reasonable to assume that his status as a professional thief wouldn’t go down well with Jacques or Lucy, nor would the fact that he had snuck into the party as a way to get back at Corvo. Instead, he opted to remain silent.

Moments passed. When it became clear that Garrett wasn’t going to answer, Jacques sighed and leant back in his seat, jiggling his leg. Corvo looked from Jacques to Garrett and then back again, thinking. 

Garrett’s stomach growled, a painful reminder of his refusal to eat, his fear of poison, the thought that the other people in this house might want him dead. Something about the sound seemed to soften Lucy and Jacques up, and their faces turned worried. 

“If we’ve come to the conclusion that Jindosh is responsible,” Corvo said, “Couldn’t we just let Garrett go, let him do as he pleases and leave him alone? He’s hungry. Surely someone who knows what’s going on in here would be provided with food? The Abbey aren’t idiots, they won’t let their informants starve.” A pause, and Jacques looked at him reluctantly. It might have been the relief of figuring out Jindosh’s intentions or the exhaustion, but he seemed predisposed towards being lenient to Garrett. “I’ll stay with him, I’m stronger and faster than him. If he tries to communicate with anyone, I will know. If he tries to kill me, you will know I was supervising him. That good enough?”

Jacques clearly just wanted to go to bed at this point. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, then pressed them into the corners of his eyes to stave off sleep. “Alright. We can talk again tomorrow. We need to take shifts guarding Jindosh’s door, so you two start and Lucy and I will relieve you in…” he looked at his watch, “three hours. It’s late. I need to get some sleep.”

Garrett watched Jacques as he rose to his feet with a groan and began to shuffle off around the table, heading for the door, followed closely by Lucy. He still felt weak from lack of food, but wasn’t sure whether he would be able to force himself to eat. When the other two left the room, he relaxed significantly, and looked at Corvo.

“You said you’d stay with me.”

Corvo looked uncomfortable. “I did what I did to keep you safe. Your best interests were in my mind at all times.”

“Why didn’t you make them let me go?”

“You want the truth?” Corvo finally asked, “We _all_ need to be on the same team here. You need their trust, and they need your trust, and you _can’t_ just do that by hiding _all the time._ You need to talk to them so they know you’re not going to go after them with a knife like Jindosh did, and _only_ then do we stand any chance of getting out of this place.”

Garrett stopped and thought. He had never really thought of it like that. He had never considered the possibility that they might feel frightened or threatened by him, or that they might think he was involved in it somehow. He stood there for a moment, clenching and unclenching his hands, then protested. “I suppose they’ll approve of having a thief in their midst, then.”

“You’re still doing that?”

Garrett shrugged. “What else would I be doing?”

“I don’t know.” Corvo said. “Antiques restoration? Undertaker? Bell-boy?”

Garrett almost laughed. _Almost._ “Bell-boy?” He said, amused, “What have _you_ been smoking?”

“Hopefully enough that all this is just a bad trip.” Corvo said, and noticed Garrett was smiling. It was barely noticeable, but it was there, that little upward turn at the corner of his mouth. “Is that why you’re here, then? Wanted to rob the place?”

Garrett caught himself before he admitted it. ‘Wanted to rob _you.’_ What was it about Corvo that was so disarming, that prompted him to spill his guts so easily? The sly smile, that sense of humour; it distracted him. It almost made him _trust_ him. And that was the worst part of it.

“It looked fancy. There were drunk men. Drunk men aren’t as careful with their valuables, they don’t remember things. It’s easy pickings.”

“Of course.”

Garrett could tell that Corvo was holding off on something. His posture was stiff, his hands clenched, he had taken a breath as if he was about to say something but had abruptly cut it off, like he was about to spill a secret too.

“Go on.” Garrett said, his arms folded over his chest. “What is it?”

There was a pause as Corvo worked himself up to it. “Why are you in Dunwall?”

Was that something Garrett could trust Corvo with? Could he bring himself to tell him that his house had been burnt down, his city destroyed, and that he had nowhere else to go? Would that put him at a significant disadvantage if Corvo did decide to pull something unsavoury?

No. There were lots of other places to go. If anything, Garrett was _safer_ because Corvo would no longer have a solid place to start searching.

“The City is… It’s dangerous. I can’t stay there any more.”

“Thadeus finally found your clocktower?”

Garrett pursed his lips and stood up. He still wasn’t ready to start talking about either of those events, so he shuffled past Corvo and out the door, signalling the end of the conversation. Corvo followed him some moments later with the oil lamp and neglected to shut the door behind him, joining Garrett in the library proper, pulling up a couple of chairs and taking a seat on one of them, watching him as he sat cross-legged on the floor in one of the corners, shrouded in shadow.

Some time passed, and they sat together in silence. It couldn’t have been much later than two in the morning, and Jindosh had long since stopped shouting. The chair remained in front of the door, jammed beneath the handle, stopping Jindosh from escaping even if he did manage to untie his bindings.

“You ever played _Nancy?”_ Corvo finally asked, cutting through the silence. 

Garrett looked up abruptly. “Nancy?”

“It’s a card game.” Corvo said, then got up and headed to the back of the room. He ducked behind a bookcase and Garrett heard the sound of him searching through the boxes and books that were stored there. He returned some minutes later with a small black box, blowing the dust off them.

Garrett shrugged. He had never really been one for card games. He knew Basso made a lot of money off them in the Crippled Burrick when enough people were around to make it difficult for the guards to spot him, but they had never caught his interest. It just seemed to involve a lot of sitting around, talking, and not much else. Did he even have the strength to learn a new card game right now?

“I’m… I’m not really--”

“It’ll be fun,” Corvo said, shuffling and dealing the cards on the floor, “Plus, there’s not much to do here apart from stare at the door. It’ll stop us falling asleep.”

A moment passed in silence, then Garrett rolled his eyes. He _really_ didn’t want to fall asleep in such an exposed area, so he supposed it might be a good idea. He shuffled over towards Corvo, staying well out of arms’ reach, sat on the dusty floor, and allowed Corvo to teach him to play.

Jindosh never made a sound.


	14. Day 4, The Lying Tongue: Part 2

The sound of the clock from the hallway woke Corvo with a start. He gripped the sheets on the floor of the laundry room, his mouth dry, panting, reeling. Where was Garrett? What had they been doing? He lifted his head _just_ enough to find Garrett’s small form clad in black leather, curled over on himself, half-buried in tangled sheets. He stirred at the sound of Corvo’s sudden movements, met Corvo’s eyes with his own for a moment, then lowered his head and fell back asleep.

Corvo waited for his heart to stop racing and stared up at the ceiling as the grandfather clock continued to chime, counting them, reorienting himself. He hadn’t dreamt. Didn’t even felt like he had slept, merely floated between fuzzy states unsure of what was real and what wasn’t. His eyes burned, his movements clumsy and slow as he raised a hand to rub the corners of his eyes, focusing.

Ten chimes.

The laundry room was already very hot. The sun outside had been relentless, warming the inside of the house until most rooms became hot and stuffy, unpleasant to be in at the best of times, even worse if the sun was allowed to shine through uncovered windows or if there were many people in one place. The lack of airflow through the laundry room made it too hot, too humid and sticky. How long had Garrett been staying in this little room, still dressed head-to-toes in warm leathers? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Several minutes passed, and Corvo continued to stare at the ceiling as warm sunlight filtered beneath the door. Someone had locked it when they retreated to Garrett’s nest, but which one of them was unclear. The previous day had been relentless; it was difficult to separate events from each other at the best of times, let alone when they were both drunk on exhaustion. Realistically, it had probably been Garrett who had locked it. Gods knew he probably didn’t trust Corvo to triple check the door.

Slowly, groaning, Corvo shuffled himself up against the wall. It was already late; Jacques and Lucy must have been supervising Jindosh for at least four hours now, keeping watch. It was a good sign, at least, that Corvo hadn’t been woken by cannons and screaming. Maybe Jindosh _had_ been responsible. Maybe they _had_ bought themselves some time.

He looked over at Garrett, studying him. A small pool of dark red sat beneath his arm, dried onto the sheets. His stomach lurched. Garrett _had_ been on the receiving end of an attack from Jindosh the previous night, and he must have caught the wrong end of the blade. Corvo hadn’t even noticed - and neither had Garrett, apparently. He cursed himself, shuffling over to wake Garrett up in order to inspect the wound. Wasn’t he supposed to be protecting Garrett? He knew he should know better, but the events of the previous night…

Garrett started awake as Corvo’s shadow moved across the room. A fleeting ghost of panic crossed his face for a moment, he struggled to his elbows, then folded back on one, groaning. The leather was ripped. It would have been hard to see the difference in the low light levels of the night, but now the blood was clearly visible beneath the clothing, where it had flaked off and rubbed into streaks of pink during the night. Garrett looked pale.

“Garrett, you’re hurt,” Corvo said, advancing, “You should have told me. Let me take a look--”

Garrett flung out a hand to stop Corvo’s own before he even had a chance to draw within arm’s reach. He shuffled backwards, the arm clenched in his other hand, his teeth gritted against fresh new pain.

Corvo stopped in his tracks and held his hands up, dipping his head, but his voice remained firm. “You have every right to refuse, but that’s been bleeding _quite a lot,_ and it’s going to be difficult for you to clean and bandage it.”

“It’s _fine.”_ Garrett hissed through his teeth, flattened against the wall. “It’s just a scratch.”

“I dread to think what an actual injury looks like to you, then.” Corvo said, sitting back down on his knees, still facing Garrett. “But fine.” He paused, then had a thought. “I’ve helped treat your wounds before. What changed?”

He knew that no matter how much he softened his tone, the words would seem aggressive to Garrett. He watched him as Garrett stared him down, his eyes dark, but couldn’t help but notice the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the gaunt cheeks. “You really need reminding?”

“I suppose not,” Corvo finally said, then stood up, “Guess I should check on Jacques and Lucy. Fancy coming?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Garrett said, then drew his knees up beneath him. He fumbled for a moment with the sheets still wrapped around his legs, tangled between his feet, his movements slow and sluggish, and sat back against the wall, his head in his hands.

_He really doesn’t look well._

“Tired?” Corvo asked, then offered out a hand. Garrett glanced upwards, his expression still icy, paused for a moment, then took it. The weight - or lack thereof - on the other end of his arm took him by surprise; by the time he had realised Garrett was much, _much_ lighter than he remembered, he was already halfway through pulling him to his feet. Garrett’s hand was slick and clammy, something Corvo assumed was a result of the stress he had been under for the past few days, but there was a glassy look in his eyes as he finally rose to his feet.

“Are you okay?” Corvo asked. He placed a steadying hand on Garrett’s shoulder, mindful of the knife wound, and leant down to look him in the eyes.

Garrett nodded. Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed forward.

Thankful he was still within arm’s reach, Corvo caught Garrett, struggling with the dead weight despite Garrett’s own lightness. He clamped his arms around Garrett’s chest before he fell to the floor and lowered him gently, muttering curses under his breath, readjusting his grip to avoid irritating the wound on his arm. Garrett stirred as Corvo slid his hand beneath his head, bringing it slowly to rest on a tangled pile of sheets, and looked up at him unsteadily.

“Garrett? Garrett, what’s wrong?”

Garrett squinted and turned his head to the side, obviously embarrassed by his fall. “Nothing. ‘M fine.”

Corvo resisted the urge to snap at Garrett, tired of his futile attempts at covering up the truth and swallowed the dryness in his throat. Although it was most likely that the fainting episode was brought on by his continued refusal to eat, Corvo couldn’t help but worry that something more sinister was at play. Probably nothing more than habit. _Why_ hadn’t he insisted Garrett eat something earlier? Why hadn’t he checked in more frequently? He hadn’t said anything about it to Corvo, so he had allowed it to go unchecked. He thought back to the weeks he had spent with Garrett in the clocktower, of all the times he had hidden his needs from Corvo – the pain, the hunger, the cold. Was it simply habit? Or was he afraid that Corvo might take advantage of his compromised state? Did he feel the need to hide his status from Corvo to protect himself?

“You’re not fine. Don’t lie to me.”

Garrett glanced at Corvo, then looked away again. Although some colour was now flooding back into his cheeks, he obviously still felt too compromised to challenge Corvo further, so he let it slide. Corvo couldn’t help but notice Garrett’s teeth were chattering and he was shaking, his muscles tense.

“Are you cold?” Corvo asked.

Garrett paused for a moment, clamping his teeth together, gritting them against the shakes, then gestured with his head, a tense, jerky approximation of a nod. He remained still and allowed Corvo to find several thicker sheets, watching him as he worked, his eyes following him around the room.

When Corvo finished, he knelt down at Garrett’s side and looked him in the eyes. “I’m going to get you water and something to eat, but I’m going to have to leave you here alone to do it. Is that alright with you?”

Another tense nod.

Corvo hummed in approval, collected the water jug from the floor, then got to his feet and headed for the door. He turned. “Want anything else?”

“Freedom would be nice.”

Corvo snorted roughly. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

He left the laundry room as quietly as he could manage, closing the door tightly behind him and checking carefully for evidence of the presence of other people. The sounds of the house, the hum of the lightbulbs, the creaking and groaning of the water pipes, whispered among themselves like a chorus of ethereal beings, but there were no footsteps. No voices. No people in the vicinity. If he was quick about it, the chance that anyone would stumble upon Garrett’s hiding place was nearly negligible.

Quick on his feet, he hurried to the scullery, barely looking up from the floor, too engrossed in his thoughts to really check where he was going. Anger at his own failure to recognise that Garrett was struggling bubbled in his gut. Why hadn’t he pushed Garrett more to look after himself? Why hadn’t he recognised the signs? Why had he failed to follow through on his promise to stay with Garrett the night before, allowed him to be herded into a separate room with a stranger, only to listen to Jindosh’s tortured screams without explanation? What sort of friend _was_ he?

He stopped himself in his tracks as he came to the sink and filled the jug, testing the temperature of the water with one hand and shifting where he stood, trying to force himself to relax. It felt like there was a coil, a spring of some sort wound up in his stomach, a tense pressure that _wouldn’t go away._ The threat of an unexpected death, whether he was next or not, hung over his head like an executioner’s axe, and his problems with Garrett were compounding the issue further. He had to do something about relieving the tension soon or it would spill over.

He took a breath. Mentally forced himself to step back from the situation and calm down. There was nothing that could be done now about what he had or hadn’t done to keep Garrett comfortable and safe. It was in the past. He could choose to continue stewing over it and risk making the problem worse, or he could acknowledge his own faults and work on fixing them.

The jug overflowed over his hands and he jumped back and cursed. He had been so engaged in his thoughts that he had barely been paying attention to his surroundings or the task at hand. He switched the tap off, poured out the excess water, then turned and left. If he was lucky, the ballroom might still be open, and he could find something simple and non-threatening for Garrett to eat.

The lights buzzing overhead almost felt too intense. Too bright. It bounced off the walls and the floor and wormed its way into the back of Corvo’s eyeballs and triggered a headache. He felt _grubby._ When had he last had a bath?

He watched his feet as he carried on down the corridor. Something was wrong.

He stopped.

Waited.

Was he imagining things? Something seemed _off_ but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it…

A noise broke the silence. Some kind of heavy thump. Like something heavy had been dropped – a piece of furniture perhaps.

_Or a body._

Corvo looked up and around, searching for the source of the noise. It sounded like it was coming from one floor above.

He hurried onwards, jug clamped between his hands. There it was again. Another _thump,_ another pause as he stopped abruptly, waiting.

Silence.

_Thump._

Was he imagining things?

He continued, working his way across the corridor and towards the grand staircase, his eyes drawn upwards to the first floor, unsure of whether he should hide, run, stay still or proceed and investigate. He waited. A shadow passed, a fleeting piece of evidence that moved from one side of the wall to the other as Corvo stood, frozen, by the handrail at the bottom.

_Thump._

The shadow was huge. Taller than any human, by far. Now that he was closer to the source of the sound, he could hear it in greater detail. It wasn’t organic, and it wasn’t _simple._ If he listened closer, he could hear whirring and clicking, the sound of metal part on metal part. He froze, his stomach suddenly roiling. The shadow on the wall had a head; a huge, beak-shaped affair, its four arms primed, a wide chest with edges that moved: gears and cogs spinning, pistons whirring, all mounted upon the chassis holding it all together.

He suppressed the panic rising in his chest. Looked over at the raised platform that the Clockwork Soldier had been stood on for the previous few days.

It was gone.

Corvo gritted his teeth and edged into the ballroom. His breath hitched in his throat as he swung the door shut behind him, very aware of the amount of noise he was making. If the time he had spent trying to get to Jindosh in the Clockwork Mansion had taught him anything, it was to be careful about the amount of noise he was making, just as much as his visibility. Even if the automaton’s visual faculties were damaged or destroyed, they were still more than capable of hearing where he was if he wasn’t _very, very careful_ about his footsteps.

He walked to the table and placed the jug of water down, then leant forward heavily, the knuckles of one hand now between his teeth, biting down out of fear and frustration. Why hadn’t they dealt with the Clockwork when they had first realised that it wasn’t simply deactivated? The moment it began to move its head, the moment it began to show any evidence of activity at all, they should have found _some_ way of destroying it, or at the very least disabling it. They should have attacked it, broken away its limbs, persuaded Jindosh to rewire it, anything. Now, it was very possible they wouldn’t have a chance. He would have to be very careful about where he walked now, and when. It was possible that they might adhere to patrol routes, ones he could take advantage of, but even then…

Even then, they still _scared_ him. It was one thing to fight a human, a being of flesh and bone; it was entirely another to fight a machine that was both terrifyingly powerful and incapable of fear or remorse. It was easy to pierce a man with a sword and watch the lifeblood flood from his body. These automatons had no such weakness. If Corvo wanted to take this one down, he had to work for it - there were parts and areas that were weak - but a strike that was off by even an inch would be ineffective, and worse, would alert the Clockworks of an attack.

He willed his heart to slow, staring down into the glossy wood to ground himself. Of all the things he had gone through, of course it would be the Clockworks that were among the most frightening to him. _Of course._ The Masked Felon, a renowned assassin, a murderer, frightened of a machine. The idea was laughable.

The sound of the Clockwork’s footsteps thudded on the floor above, dragging Corvo out of his tharn state. He couldn’t just stay here in the ballroom, paralysed by fear. He couldn’t let it win over him. He had to keep moving, for his own sake, and for Garrett’s. For Emily’s. If he never got out of here, then she would be lost.

But with Suleiman gone, her chances had already been decimated. Corvo resisted the urge to fling one of the platters at the wall in rage and grief. Suleiman, his only real hope of saving Emily, had been taken away from him. How dare they? _How dare they?_

Instead of stewing, he selected a loaf of bread and a platter of Serkonan blood sausage, which by now was cold. He doubted that he would be able to get Garrett to eat the sausage in particular, but it was worth a try. When he lifted his hands from the table, he couldn’t help but notice that his palms had left damp marks on the wood. A small card sat in the centre of the table, one he had seen before, and when he picked it up and read it, his suspicions were confirmed.

_Suleiman Coppermind._

He flipped it over, reading the other side.

_The Restless Hands._

_"Restrict the Restless Hands, which quickly become the workmates of the Outsider. Unfettered by honest labor, they rush to sordid gain, vain pursuits, and deeds of violence. Of what value are the hands that steal and kill and destroy? Instead, put your hands to the plow, the fork, and the spade. For even the lowliest labor that is rigorous squeezes the muscles as a sponge, rinsing impurities from the mind and body."_

However this particular stricture had related to Suleiman, Corvo would never know. It seemed obvious that the Abbey disliked Suleiman’s employment at Corvo’s direction, going as far as to arrest him, but Corvo had never suspected it would devolve into this. He never thought they would execute him, this intelligent academic, this fountain of knowledge, this kind man.

He would kill them. When he got out of this house, he would kill them all. He would _make them suffer._

He took a moment, stepped back, tried to disconnect himself slightly. He had to refocus or he knew he would get lost in fantasies of perceived justice and revenge. Turning, balancing the food precariously on one arm and holding the jug in the other, Corvo walked to the other door, the one leading out into the scullery just beyond the main corridor, shut it behind him as quietly as he could manage, then headed back to the laundry room. Above him, he could hear the Clockwork idling, clanking up and down the hallway, pausing to turn. 

“One-thousand rotations. Re-introducing graphite.”

If Corvo knew no better, he would have heard the instructions read out in the voice of Kirin Jindosh and assumed he had managed to escape. He would have hurried to the source of the noise and been slain.

But he knew. He knew better.

He would have to simply continue on as planned, and deal with it when the time came.

* * *

The creak of the door jolted Garrett from his half-dreams. He gasped and recoiled instinctively, thrashing against the sheets and cramming himself back against the wall, melding with the shadow to the best of his abilities, his heart hammering. He tried to lash out, a futile, pathetic excuse of a defence, but stopped himself. Light splashed across the floor from the corridor outside accompanied by a cool draft, the air from the corridor rolling into the room that _must_ be much hotter and stuffier than Garrett realised. He was warm. Too warm. He was sweating against his leathers.

He kicked what sheets remained off as Corvo entered the room, shuffling up against the wall in a movement that was half defensive and half in greeting. The light from the corridor hurt his head, his brain, prompting a thumping headache and watering eyes. He raised a hand, squinting, but Corvo shut the door as soon as he opened it and knelt down beside Garrett, depositing a jug of water and two plates on the floor beside him. He moved his head to look at them, but he felt listless, tired, slightly nauseous.

“How are you feeling?” Corvo asked as he sat down, a pace or two further away from Garrett than where he had put the jug and the plates.

Garrett refused to allow his face to betray the reality of the situation. He fixed his mouth into a line and stared directly ahead, avoiding eye contact with Corvo. “I’m fine.”

“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Garrett scoffed, but said no more, opting instead to zone out in exhaustion. Corvo shuffled closer to him, but Garrett offered up no resistance. 

“Would you drink some water for me? It’ll make you feel better.” Concern clouded Corvo’s voice, and Garrett knew that at some point he was going to ask to treat the wound on his arm, but he allowed him anyway. He was still _painfully aware_ that pleasing Corvo was his best shot at escaping this house.

A few moments passed as the question disappeared somewhere in Garrett’s mind while he processed it, and then, slowly, he nodded. His lips were dry and chapped. His headache pounded further. He watched Corvo as he picked up the jug from the floor, poured a little into one of the cups they had been using over the past couple of days, then slowly lifted it to Garrett’s lips, allowing him to take it in his own time.

It made his stomach turn a little, but he was reminded of when Corvo had looked after him before, how he had helped tip water into his mouth, and he hated even more how it had made him feel better. It made it clear that Corvo was _right,_ and he knew it. There was something distasteful about the concept. Garrett had always considered himself a highly independent person – it seemed to disturb his view of himself, which were generally not thought patterns he cared to entertain. 

Nevertheless, he sat there and took it. He allowed Corvo to help him to drink, allowed him to sit by him silently as if he was some kind of _invalid_ and pour water slowly into his mouth, waiting for him to nod when he was ready for more. He hated that it _helped,_ that it made him feel _better._ He hated that he wasn’t even able to _take care of himself_ because he was so terrified _all the time,_ because he felt like he was being _hunted._

He choked on a mouthful and coughed, gasping for breath. Corvo withdrew the cup sharply waiting for him to stop coughing, but when he raised the cup again, Garrett shook his head. When he glanced down, he was dismayed to see that most of the water in the jug still remained.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, the words rasping as he forced them out between hacking cough after hacking cough, “After everything. Why are you still here?”

Corvo paused, then refilled the cup. “I can leave if you want me to.”

Garrett shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

A few moments passed in silence as Corvo finished filling the cup and placed it carefully back on the floor. He looked like he was distracted by something, but Garrett gave him the time to collect his words, not sure what to expect.

Eventually, Corvo took a breath and met Garrett’s eyes. “I still care for you. I realise I’ve made the wrong decisions in the past, and you don’t always want to be around me, but I think you deserve to get out of here, just like everyone else. And if I’m going to be honest, you’re not really capable of looking after yourself at the moment; I know everyone here, and you don’t. I’m capable of fighting people off when push comes to shove, and you’re not.”

Garrett grunted, but opted not to reply. He supposed it was true, Corvo was more capable of surviving here than he was, and that was why Garrett was still hanging onto him, allowing him to care for him. That hadn’t been his question, however. He said that he believed Garrett deserved to get out, like everyone else. Would he have done the same for Corvo is he were in his situation?

When he really thought about it, he supposed he would.

He was still weak. It hurt to move, so he sat back against the wall and allowed Corvo to continue to help him drink, and they sat together in silence for some time.

“Would you eat something?” Corvo eventually asked, gesturing to the plates on the floor, “You’ll probably feel better if you’re not passing out all the time.”

Garrett flushed, but quickly found himself overcome by a wave of anxiety. He _knew_ he had to eat soon. He _knew_ he would feel better and more alert and capable of looking after himself if he put something in his stomach, but the emotional, anxious part of his mind told him _no._ That he was putting himself at risk by trusting any of the food here, that he was being unnecessarily reckless and careless. He found it frustrating that he felt completely incapable of turning off that part of his mind, that he couldn’t control his own brain when he desired to maintain control in every other aspect of his life, but no matter how angry he got at himself, he could never make it go away.

He wondered if one day, that paranoia would lead to his own death.

Dragging his knees up beneath his chin, he curled tightly into a ball and gripped fistfuls of hair in his hands. The reality of the situation made him want to scream and fight, but against whom? There was nothing _to_ fight but himself.

“Garrett, I can’t just let you starve.”

He _knew_ he couldn’t. He had put it off for so long thinking that maybe an opportunity to escape would arise before he had to eat anything here, but he hadn’t been so lucky. Avoidance had a way of lulling him into a false sense of security.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Was there? He unclenched his fists and ran his fingers through his hair, grounding himself in the texture, the warmth of the space between his knees, the vile wetness of half-congealed blood on his upper arm, rocked himself back and forth slightly. He was keenly aware of how long it had been since he had last had a bath, the oil on his skin and in his hair made him cringe but the alternative felt so much worse.

Eventually, he uncurled himself, refusing to look Corvo in the face, and stared at the plates in front of him. Bread and what looked like sausage, but he felt he couldn’t really be sure here. It had been a struggle to adapt to small changes, even back in the City, even when he’d had a place to stay with reasonable confidence that he would be safe and a method of entertaining his interests. Moving to Dunwall had upended his whole life, and the change in the food available here - the different smells and tastes and textures - made the whole thing so much worse. 

It was just bread. He didn’t _have_ to eat the sausage. He didn’t have to if he didn’t want to… He’d tried it before, only a mouthful on the stairs, but he was still alive now, just about. The pain he felt in his stomach and the heaviness in his limbs was familiar in a way; it was hunger, not the effects of poison.

Slowly, tentatively, he picked up the bread, tore off a chunk, and turned it over in his hands as he liked to do. It was softer here than in the City, like so many other things. The strands of gluten stretched and then tore, yielded under the pressure of his thumb but then bounced back. Firm, but not hard. Not stale like City bread. Soft like Dunwall bread. It smelled less like sawdust than before.

Garrett could see Corvo fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, shifting where he sat, wringing his hands, but thought nothing of it. He turned away and tore an even smaller chunk of bread off, roughly the size of the end of his thumb, and placed it in his mouth, chewed absently, then swallowed. Then he did it again. And again. He had been through this all before, knew that he had to pace himself, but he found it so hard. Why would his body always betray him when it was least convenient?

With shaking hands, he placed the loaf back down onto the plate and wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, curled up in front of him. Corvo cocked his head, but Garrett still avoided his gaze, staring at the food in front of him.

“Don’t you like it?” Corvo asked.

Garrett paused, breathed out very slowly, tracked the shaking of his arms and noticed as it slowly began to disappear. “You remember the last time we did this?”

“I do,” Corvo said, then blew air out through his nose in amusement, “You nearly made yourself sick.”

“Right. Well I don’t want that to happen again.”

“Right you are.” Corvo said, his posture relaxing slightly, sitting back against the wall, his hair limp and greasy and unkempt over his tired eyes. “That’s… that’s sensible.”

Garrett hummed, his knees still drawn up to his chest, and continued to stare at the plate in front of him. His arm still stung, the wound rubbed against the sliced edge of his leathers and re-opened with every large movement of his arms, so he held it stiffly to his side, the other hand now clenched over it, as if trying to squeeze the pain out.

They sat in silence together for some time. Corvo looked strained, as if he was trying to work himself up to saying something, but Garrett ignored it, preferring instead to stew in his own thoughts. He supposed there were a lot of things to say; ones that he felt needed to be said, but found himself unable to bring up by himself.

“I’m not going to lie to you any more.” Corvo eventually said with some finality. “You need to know what’s going on. I had a think about what’s been happening, and what I’ve done. I might have all the best intentions in the world, but unless we’re clear on them, it means nothing to you, I get it. I’m sorry for not being more careful about Lucy and Jacques last night, I’m sorry for not insisting they let you go, and I’m sorry for not staying with you like I said. I felt that that was the only way to de-escalate things, but now I know I was wrong.”

Garrett nodded at the floor. “You _were_ wrong.”

Corvo continued. “I don’t want to worry you, but the automaton that was standing under the stairs? It’s dangerous. And it’s active. I know I can’t make you do anything, but I would advise you to stay out of its way for your own safety.”

“Alright.” Garrett said, then picked the loaf of bread up again and tore off another small chunk, then chewed it slowly.

“Also--” Corvo said, “I realise you don’t want me to touch you, but your wound looks nasty. I care about you, and I would hate to see you get ill over something preventable, so I would like to clean it and close it.”

Garrett clenched his jaw tightly. He had known this was coming, but also knew it was inevitable. Corvo was right _again_ and he knew what was best and it made him _sick._ Instead of lashing out, he steeled himself, waited for a long few seconds, then finally, slowly, nodded. Corvo was pushing his boundaries already, far beyond what Garrett would have liked to allow him, but felt cornered by biological necessity. Nonetheless, he still appreciated Corvo’s truthfulness. It had taken him some time to come clean about why he had lied to him, but it made reality marginally easier to swallow when the facts of Corvo’s choices were laid bare. He was still hungry, but the weakness no longer harried him like it had before. His stomach still ached, but at least his mind felt more focused.

Corvo shuffled over towards him; Garrett allowed him to approach. The warmth of his fingers on his arm made his hairs stand on end, made his mind scream at him to _run,_ but he crushed the fear, forced himself to stay still, and made do with grinding his teeth. 

“I’m really sorry, but I need better access here. I can’t sort this out over your clothes. Could you just… move your leathers aside slightly so I can see it better? I don’t want to ruin your gear.”

Garrett grunted and nodded, but Corvo continued.

“I’m going to see if I can safely get some medical supplies. They must have _something_ in here, and if not, then we should get it cleaned anyway.”

Once again, Garrett grunted, unwilling or unable to say anything coherent. He watched Corvo as he rose to his feet and left the room quietly, then turned to his arm and began to undo the buckles and laces on his harness, hissed through his teeth as the leather brushed the edges of the wound. He pushed through it regardless, working at the outfit, pulling it down over his shoulder until the wound was clearly accessible, then grabbed the sheets he had been sleeping in and covered the rest of himself with that. In reality, there wasn’t much left to cover, and Corvo _had_ seen him even less dressed than this before, but it added an extra layer of security. Made him feel safe, and to hell with what Corvo thought.

The wound itself was red around the edges, albeit more with irritation than infection. It gaped open, much too far for comfort, although upon closer inspection, it had already begun to heal at the edges, fusing the wound itself to the skin, and he found himself unable to close it on his own. His mind wandered idly as he poked and prodded at the cut, inspecting it best he could from the angle it was at, marvelling at how quickly it had begun to heal, then eventually lost interest and sat back against the wall, waiting for Corvo to return.

When he did, he was pale, but carried a basin of water, washcloths that were still folded and pressed and a bar of soap. “We’re going to have to make do with these and strips of bedding.” Corvo said, continuing past the shelf that Garrett had himself hidden behind, then grabbed a fresh pillowcase and set it down on the floor next to Garrett. Then, Corvo placed the bar of soap and the washcloth on the pillowcase, the basin on the floor, and sat beside Garrett, drying his hands on yet another pillowcase.

Garrett stared at Corvo blankly as he discarded the pillowcase and sat on his knees, taking Garrett’s arm in his hands. His fingers were warm but calloused, gentle as he inspected the wound, then picked up the washcloth and soaked it in the basin of water for a moment.

“I’ve spent many a night cleaning up my daughter’s wounds,” Corvo said idly, bringing the cloth from the bowl and squeezing the excess water out, “It’s different taking care of someone else than it is taking care of yourself. I never really gave a shit when patching myself up after combat, if I bothered at all, but with someone you love… it’s different.”

“I wouldn’t know that.” Garrett said, watching Corvo as he dabbed at the wound, cleaning away the worst of the blood.

Corvo snorted dryly and continued. The water in the basin slowly turned red. “Not the best at wound care yourself, are you?”

Garrett replied shortly. “I’ve read books.”

“You’d think that with all that theoretical knowledge you’d be a professional by now. And yet…” he brushed a white scar on Garrett’s lower arm and took a glance at the palm where Garrett’s skin had grown back uneven after his clash with the General.

“And yet I’m still not perfect. So shoot me.”

“It looks like someone already did.” Corvo said disapprovingly, then picked up the bar of soap and rubbed a little into the washcloth. “I don’t think you ever told me what happened there. Guard?”

“General,” Garrett found himself saying, despite his better judgement, “I walked into a trap and he got me through the hand.”

“Smart move,” Corvo said, a hint of amusement in his voice, “Can’t have been too bad, right? You’re still here.”

“I am.”

_But he’s not._

The two lapsed into silence as Corvo continued to work on Garrett’s wound. He took his time as he rubbed away streaks of blood, washing away what remained of dirt and soap, sat with Garrett as they waited for it to dry, then bound it in strips of clean bedding. It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but it would do. For now. Despite the deaths outside, despite the chaos and the horror of the past few days, it felt warm, almost _safe_ in here - and that was _wrong._ Garrett knew it was wrong, but allowed his guard down anyway.

What else was he supposed to do? He had no idea what to make of the situation; was he sticking around purely for Corvo’s protection, or was there more?

“And another thing, if you don’t mind?”

Garrett took his arm from Corvo’s hands and tested it gently, rolling it forwards, back again, then cradled his forearm in his lap. He sighed, finally letting his head roll back against the wall, then turned to Corvo, unamused. “What?”

Corvo hesitated, then motioned to his own eye, staring at Garrett’s. “What happened there?”

“This _again?”_

“Alright, alright. I get it,” Corvo said, quickly backing off and folding his own hands in his lap, “I apologise. I won’t ask about it any more.”

“Thank you.” Garrett said, making no attempt at hiding his frustration. True, he had made him eat, cleaned up his wound, kept his secret from the rest of the house, but he had still _lied._ And _only now_ was he making any attempt at fixing his own ways. Garrett wasn’t ready to talk about something that personal with Corvo yet. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he sat and stared into space, feeling the need to be alone and process but still reluctant to ask Corvo to leave. He _had_ just bandaged him up, after all.

It turned out that there was no need. Corvo dropped the washcloth back in the basin, then picked it up along with the soap, rose to his feet. Garrett watched him absently from where he sat, one leg still bent up beneath his chin, one out on the floor, his arm still hanging loosely by his side. Corvo turned briefly, looking as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of it and closed his mouth. 

“I’m going to check on Jacques and Lucy, see what I can do about that Clockwork,” Corvo said after a pause, “I’m not going to try to make you come with me, or stay here. You’re free to do what you want. Just be aware that--” he stopped, then swallowed, “That thing out there is dangerous. Best if you don’t let it see or hear you. I’ve seen monsters like that tear people apart in seconds.”

Garrett looked blankly at him and didn’t offer up a reply. He had been staying alone in this laundry room for many days now, almost undisturbed. Why would he leave now, unless the situation was dire? He laid back, shuffling himself down the wall and curled up into a ball, appreciating the comforting fullness of his stomach, the headache now slowly ebbing away, and listened to Corvo as he swung the door shut behind him as he left.

It didn’t take him long to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me, the last few weeks have been crazy! I hope the fluff this week makes up for the wait :)


	15. Day 4, The Lying Tongue: Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning here because I feel it needs to be said. There's a scene at the end of this chapter that could be considered to contain very mild dubious consent (if you squint at it). It's quite important for the story's progression, but if you don't want to read it then shoot me a message on Tumblr and I can explain what happens.

Corvo found Lucy alone in the library, sitting on a chair not far away from the room where Jindosh was locked up, her figure only visible through an empty bookshelf, studying a dusty old book from the tables at the other side of the room. Late afternoon light spilled across the floor from the windows high above them, casting the room in a gold summer glow, illuminating the motes of dust that danced lazily through the air. Although the floorboards creaked and groaned beneath Corvo as he made his way across the room, Lucy made no indication that she had heard him; she did not look up or stir. 

Approaching her from around the corner, Corvo found that she wasn’t reading at all. Her fingers held one page only loosely, one fine movement from dropping the book altogether, her head bowed over her chest, her figure relaxed in the chair. Corvo observed her for a moment, deciding whether to wake her or to allow her to sleep for a little while longer, but then decided on the former. He had questions to ask. Jacques was nowhere to be seen, and the two had agreed to keep an eye on Jindosh after Corvo and Garrett had retired to bed. He hoped that Jacques had only left the room for a moment for his safety as well as everyone else’s, but found that prospect unlikely.

He coughed sharply. Lucy jumped, dropped the book, and scrambled to regain her composure, her eyes wild with shock. When she registered that a figure was standing in front of her, a look of terror crossed her face for a split-second, but with time she recognised Corvo’s figure and face. Her eyes were red from exhaustion, her skin pale, her hands trembling as she reached out for the book and picked it up again, closing it and sliding it beneath her chair.

“Corvo!” She said, “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Corvo chanced a half-smile and pulled up a stool, the legs scraping unpleasantly as they were dragged across the floorboards, then sat down, one leg over the other. “Sorry. I tried to make it as gentle as possible.”

“It’s fine,” Lucy said, blinking the last of the sleep from her eyes, “I shouldn’t have let myself fall asleep, anyway.”

Corvo made no comment, but pressed on with other matters. Although it was risky to allow Jindosh the opportunity to escape, could he really find it in himself to chastise her for it? She knew the risks and the consequences, but they were stretched so thin that there were bound to be mistakes. He gestured to the room in which Jindosh was tied up. “Heard anything from him?”

“No,” she said, “It doesn’t seem like he’s tried to break out, which is a plus. But we haven’t checked up on him in a while, and I don’t really want to do it alone, just in case…” she trailed off.

Corvo nodded. “We can do that together, if you like. If he really is still in there, though, I don’t think he’ll be in the best mood.”

“You’re not wrong,” Lucy said as she stood up and stretched, “Suppose we should get him some water or something.”

Corvo grunted, approached the door with Lucy and dragged the chair out from beneath the handle. The thought of providing Jindosh with food and water hadn’t really crossed his mind - he had been so exhausted from the events of the previous night and so furious with Jindosh that it had completely escaped his attention. He placed the chair off to the side and waited as Lucy opened the door then stepped aside, allowing Corvo entry. Jindosh still sat at the table they had left him behind the previous night, his head drooped like Lucy’s had when Corvo had found her asleep in her chair, but his breathing was ragged, slow, pained. A few seconds after the door opened, he looked up at Lucy and Corvo, regarding them with a blank expression. The deep wound in his hand had not been bandaged or treated; the flesh surrounding it was red and inflamed, and as Jindosh moved, Corvo couldn’t help but notice that he held it stiffly, as if he were unwilling to disturb the site.

Corvo waited for something to happen.

“When are you going to let me out?” Jindosh asked, his voice cracked and rough from dehydration.

“When we find proof that you’re not the one sneaking around and murdering people.” Corvo said flatly. “Until then, it’s safer for everyone if you just stay here.”

Jindosh’s head fell back to his chest in despair. “I already told you, it wasn’t me.”

“Don’t start this again,” Lucy said, turning to Corvo, “See, he’s fine. Let’s go.”

“I have questions to ask,” Corvo said, ignoring her, turning to Jindosh, “Questions I feel _you_ might be able to help us with, Kirin.”

Jindosh paled slightly but maintained a stony silence, staring Corvo down, his hair greasy and dishevelled. When he spoke, he seemed to suppress a tremor in his voice. “What is it?”

“I just wondered if you knew why the Clockwork seems to have reactivated itself.”

_“W- What?”_ Jindosh said, stuttering. “I have _no idea…_ What do you mean?”

“I think you know damn well what I mean.” 

“I… I don’t. I have no idea.”

Somewhere in the corner of his eye, Corvo spotted Lucy stiffen. He turned to her, and found her eyes wide, her teeth gritted.

“What _do_ you mean?” she asked, repeating Jindosh’s question, “The Clockwork? Clockwork Soldier?”

“Yes,” Corvo said, slightly irritated, “It’s active. I heard it patrolling the first floor this morning and it’s disappeared from its platform. I haven’t seen it since, but I _know_ it’s around here somewhere. Now, the only person who knows anything significant about the Clockworks here is Jindosh.” He turned and gestured at the man tied up in the chair. “I would consider it just a little bit strange that you, the only person who’s openly attacked anyone else in this house, would also be the person who knows the most about the killing machine that seems to have been stationed here as a threat.”

Jindosh shook his head violently, then cringed as it disturbed his wounded hand. “I don’t remember _anything_ about how to configure those machines any more. In addition, if you don’t _recall,_ I’ve been locked up in here since the early hours of the morning with no possibility of escape - how could I possibly have accessed the Clockwork to change its programming, even if I did know what I was doing?”

“You tell me,” Corvo said, “How _could_ you have programmed it to reactivate itself now? _You’re_ the expert.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jindosh scoffed in disgust. “I didn’t do it. How _dare_ you accuse me of such a thing?”

Corvo thought for a moment, then had an idea. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, regarding the man bound in front of him, “You’re their creator, right? They must have _some_ way of distinguishing you from your enemies.”

“Yes…?”

“Suppose you are in on this, after all. You would be the one to program the behaviour of the machine, and naturally, you would maintain your ‘friendly’ status to it. This would mean that you could reveal yourself to the Clockwork without risking your own safety, right?”

Jindosh nodded slowly.

“Suppose instead that you aren’t involved, after all. The very fact that you’ve been left in this house with the rest of us naturally means you’re marked for death, so whoever is conducting this operation would have modified the Clockwork to attack everyone on sight except themselves. Is that possible?”

“I suppose…”

“So,” Corvo continued, “Would that not be a reasonably reliable indicator of whether you have had a hand in this? Are the automatons reasonably easy to write instructions for?”

“I… well, yes. Naturally.” He shook his head. “It would be pointless to create a mechanical soldier without the user, layman or no, being able to specify who to attack and who to ignore. But--”

“Surely, then, if you attempt to shut the machine down yourself and it proceeds to attack you, we can assume your innocence?”

“Not at all!” Jindosh said, “Would it not be easy for our captors to frame me at this point by programming it to ignore me, anyway?”

“He has a point.” Lucy said. “This is a witch trial. We’re better than this.”

Corvo pursed his lips, but then relaxed. What Jindosh said made sense - the Clockwork would be a poor method of proving his guilt or innocence. If Jindosh was innocent of the killings and the machine attacked him, it would be a difficult fight to end. Jindosh’s life itself hardly concerned Corvo after he had attacked Garrett, but organising the rest of the guests to hide until the Clockwork returned to its idle state would be more trouble than it was worth.

Another thought struck him. Garrett had been _very specific_ on his distaste - more like disgust - for murder. He had put the man through enough already, as it stood. He didn’t need to put Garrett on edge by risking someone’s life if it wasn’t _absolutely necessary_ , even if they _had_ willingly designed killing machines and used them to threaten Corvo’s own daughter.

“We could just wait until tomorrow,” Lucy finally said, crossing her arms, “If he’s the murderer, then nobody will die tonight, and we can act accordingly - _without_ jumping to conclusions, as crass as it sounds.”

Corvo sighed heavily, then turned back to the door. “You’re right. We’ll just have to see how things pan out. I don’t think there’s much we can do in the meantime anyway.”

“You’re just going to leave me here?” Jindosh asked.

“Yes.” Lucy and Corvo said simultaneously, then closed the door behind them.

“Alright.” Lucy said as soon as she was sure that Jindosh was out of earshot, “I don’t think he’s at risk of flight. Or fight, considering his state. I’m going to take a quick look at that Clockwork and see if I can get him some food and water. Would you see if you can find Jacques and send him here, please? I need a rest.”

Corvo smiled a weak smile, and nodded. “I’ll do my best. I’m surprised Jacques left you here alone, to deal with this one yourself.” He gestured towards the room containing Jindosh. “But Lucy, if you’re going to leave the room, try not to let the machine see or hear you. I don’t want to have to fight one of those things again; it’s dangerous, and I don’t have my sword, let alone explosives. Took me more than one grenade to take down the last one of those I encountered.”

Lucy nodded. “Noted. I’ll see if Jindosh will give me any more information on how best to target those things, just in case. And Corvo?”

Corvo turned to look at her and cocked his head.

“Thanks for telling me about the Clockwork.”

Corvo flushed. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so distracted busy with things that it slipped my mind.”

She smirked and rolled her eyes as Corvo turned away from her, leaving her alone in the library. He edged the door closed with both hands as he left to muffle the _click_ as the latch closed, then looked up and down the corridor, listening carefully for the thudding of the Clockwork’s feet, and only when he found no indication of its presence did he proceed on down the grand staircase.

* * *

After a few hours of searching, Corvo found Jacques in the one place he had adamantly resisted visiting ever again.

The wine cellar now smelled worse than ever. Three bodies lay in the corner of the room, wrapped in blood-stained sheets, the bottoms of the fabric now becoming damp with a foul-smelling liquid that Corvo tried not to think too hard about. The summer heat was still oppressive down here, despite the cellar’s placement beneath the earth. Flies hung in the air, surrounding the bodies, seemingly unaware of Corvo’s presence. The buzzing seemed to burrow deep into his head, disorientating him.

Corvo held his breath and made for the trapdoor leading down into the narrow corridor below. The light was rapidly fading, so when Corvo peered down the trapdoor, it was hard to see the bottom of the ladder. There was no way, in his opinion, that Jacques could be down there - Giulia’s body had been laying at the bottom not long before, found by Corvo and Garrett on a mission to find the origin of… whatever it was that Garrett saw in the wall when his eye turned blue, and she had been in a terrible state. The floodwater from the first night had surrounded her and her flesh seemed to have already gone grey and soft, but now…

Now she was gone.

Still holding his breath, Corvo groaned in distaste, turned around, and began to descend the ladder. A hint of orange light splashed across the oily layer of water below, but Corvo didn’t call out and risk wasting his breath. Instead, he moved with haste, took the ladder rungs as quickly as he could manage them without falling, studied the immediate area at the bottom of the ladder closely through the darkness to ensure he wasn’t about to step on a dead body, then stepped off. Water lapped around the soles of his shoes as he looked around, searching for the source of the light.

His breath had run out, already. He pinched his nose and breathed in through his mouth as he moved on, stepping carefully, knees high, careful not to disturb the foul water too much. Pale pink chunks floated at the top of the water, glistening and slimy. Corvo clamped his hand over his mouth and waited for the nausea to pass before moving on, vowing only to look down when he _absolutely_ had to.

The corridor split off into two forks within a very small space. A side-corridor sprouted off from the left several paces from the base of the ladder, illuminated by the light he had been following, and continuing onwards was the remainder of the hallway. It seemed to him that the further the corridor stretched, the deeper it became; there was a slope to the floor that led down at quite an angle, covered in water. 

Corvo turned and followed the left branch. Another few paces and the floor began to slope upwards, leaving the water pooled in the deeper sections of the corridor, leading to another ladder, rusted as it was. He covered his nose and took another breath, then climbed up the ladder, unsure of what he would find at the top.

“Ah, Corvo.” Jacques said as Corvo reached the top of the ladder, lowering his lamp to the floor and helping Corvo up over the top of the ladder, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Same for you,” Corvo said, brushing himself off, “What are you doing here?”

Jacques’s feet cast long shadows across the room as he paced back and forth for a moment, before going to stand at the other side of a large, metal box mounted on the wall at the opposite side of the ladder. “I can’t think of anywhere else we haven’t checked, so I tried this place. It was the only one I could think of, and I didn’t want to just sit around doing nothing productive. And look what I found!” He motioned at the box.

Corvo studied it carefully. “It’s a box.”

“Yes, it is.” Jacques said, standing up a little straighter. “I think there’s something _inside_ the box, I just need to open it.”

Corvo narrowed his eyes. The box looked like some sort of protective casing; the paint had flaked off over the years and underneath, bubbly, brown and orange rust pushed back at what remained of the casing. The metal looked thin in places, worn out and damaged from years of neglect. A latch - or rather a handle that looked like it could rotate and unblock the door - separated the box from a surrounding block of metal. 

The box wasn’t the only item in the room, either. A large, grated boiler stood proudly against the east wall, next to a box of coal and a shovel. The boiler wasn’t currently powered, but upon further inspection, Corvo found small embers smouldering in the darkness behind the grate. Of course someone had to be accessing this, or they’d have no hot water.

Jacques grunted to get Corvo’s attention and pointed at the floor. Dark flakes littered the floor, the same colour as the rust on the box attached to the wall, and sure enough, a fresh semi-circular mark graced the front, where the handle would turn if they could open it.

“Someone’s been in here.” Jacques said, turning to Corvo, his eyes dark, “Whatever’s in there - someone’s had access to it, and recently.”

Corvo scratched his head in thought for a moment and sighed. “And you’ve tried to open it?”

“Do you think I’m _simple?_ Of course I’ve tried to open it! I’ve been here for hours now.”

“Alright, alright. Shall I try?”

“Maybe just better to try it together.” Jacques said, then motioned for Corvo to join him by the handle. Corvo did as he was asked, braced himself against the handle, then on Jacques’s count, _pushed_ upwards against the handle with all his might.

The handle budged.

“It’s working,” Jacques said, still straining against the handle, “Keep going.”

Together, the two continued to work against the handle, pushing and pushing and _pushing_ until it moved again - a fraction of a degree, but a movement nonetheless. The handle was so stiff against the rust of the box that it moved in jerky, unpredictable motions, and eventually Jacques and Corvo fell into a pattern of throwing their weight against the handle in frequent motions rather than one sustained push.

Slowly but surely, the handle rotated and the plate of metal at the other end shifted away from the door. Jacques fell away from the handle and sagged to his knees, panting heavily, unable to talk. Corvo himself propped himself up against a nearby wall, too exhausted to feel excitement at the prospect of the opened door. 

Several minutes passed as the two recovered and regained the energy they had spent moving the handle. The lamplight flickered across the floor, throwing light onto the dust and particles of rust that had been disturbed by Jacques and Corvo’s attempts at opening the box.

Eventually, Corvo rose to his feet. “Alright. Let’s take a look in here.”

“Go ahead,” Jacques said, feebly waving a hand, “I’ll be right here. I’m getting _far_ too old for this.”

Once again, Corvo stood up and investigated the box for a way in. The lid looked slightly concave, its edges risen up by the seams, providing a good hand hold for Corvo to grip onto. The concavity of the lid, he rationalised, must have been why it had been so difficult to open; the handle clearly wasn’t meant to be as stiff as this. He worked his fingers around the edge of the lid, trying to find purchase on the metal plate, then held on and pulled, _hard._

The lid strained for a split second, then swung open, leaving Corvo stumbling back across the room. Jacques’s head snapped up at the sound, and he finally pulled himself back to his feet.

“You alright?” Jacques asked, holding out a hand and helping Corvo back to his feet. All he got was a quick ‘thanks’ and a nod in return; they both had more important things to think about.

The box, it turned out, was filled with rows and rows of levers. Years of dust had settled to the bottom ledge of the box, leaving it caked in dead insects and stray hairs, but the levers themselves appeared to be relatively clean. Marks where fingers had dislodged the dust sat scattered across the box, a telltale confirmation of the presence of another person who had tampered with them. Most of the levers were turned upwards into the ‘on’ position, with two switched downwards, in the ‘off’ position.

“A fuse box?” Jacques asked, more to himself than anyone else, “Could this be how they’re turning off the lights at night?”

“It would make sense.” Corvo said. “And maybe some other things…?”

“Like what?”

“Like the locked doors on the first floor and the attic.”

Jacques hummed in agreement, then turned back to the box. “Should we try turning them all on?”

Corvo deliberated for a moment, then folded. It was possible that this was just another trap, another way in which they would be tricked and killed, but the murders so far had been very co-ordinated and… specific, in a strange way. Corvo doubted that simply flipping one of these levers would directly result in either his or Jacques’s death. Indirectly, however…

Maybe it would activate some kind of trap. Maybe they would be setting the scene for another death in the not-too-distant future.

“I don’t think--”

Jacques flipped the lever and looked at him. A second passed, and then a low humming sound grew, increasing in pitch until something _thunked_ way above their heads, maybe several floors up. “You think far too hard about these things, Corvo,” Jacques said, then turned and headed towards the ladder, “Sometimes you just have to take a risk. I’m going to see what that lever-thing did. Are you coming?”

Corvo nodded, then followed him back down the ladder and out of the room with the box of switches, glad to be out of there. It was almost _too quiet,_ like something was pressing in on them. He allowed Jacques to climb to the bottom of the ladder, then passed him the lamp and followed.

“Jacques?” Corvo asked, “What happened to Giulia’s… What happened to her? Did you move her?”

Jacques seemed distracted by the right fork of the corridor as he approached the intersection. “What? No. I thought maybe you had.”

Corvo’s stomach sank. “No. I haven’t been here since we found her.”

But what did that mean? Surely Lucy would have told Jacques if she’d moved Giulia’s body, and Garrett was in no state to be pulling dead weights around if he couldn’t even stand up without passing out. Jindosh had been locked up in the room in the library since the previous night so he couldn’t have gotten to Giulia, even if he wanted, so who did that leave, assuming Jacques wasn’t lying?

Giovanni.

“I… You don’t think…?” Corvo asked, his stomach turning so violently at the thought of Giovanni trying to move her by himself that he didn’t even dare say it.

Jacques narrowed his eyes and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “We should have moved her. We should have sorted this problem out as soon as we found her.”

“Jacques, she would have fallen apart. What _could_ we have done?”

A shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe kept a closer eye on him. He must have moved her body somewhere, but where?”

There was a tense moment of silence, then as if in mutual agreement, the two left the underground corridor, climbed up the ladder back into the wine cellar, then alighted back into the ground-floor corridor.

Corvo sighed in relief as the stench from the cellar dissipated to be replaced by fresh air. Jacques replaced the trap door firmly, applied pressure with his foot until it was closed all the way to in order to prevent the smell leaking into the kitchen, then looked at Corvo. “What next?”

“We need to find Giovanni, first of all. Lucy also mentioned that she needed a hand with Jindosh because she’s exhausted, and we need to go investigate whatever that lever down there did.” He motioned downwards with his hands.

They were running out of people, and fast. There were too many tasks to complete for the number of people who were able to perform them, and Corvo was painfully aware that if they lost just one or two more, they would have to give up on finding a way out and concentrate on survival. _That_ in itself posed more problems than it solved.

Jacques turned for the kitchen door and moved to make his way out, but turned at the sound of Corvo’s voice. It wobbled in fear despite his best attempts at disguising it, but Jacques made no mention of it. He was most likely feeling the same way.

“Just one thing,” Corvo began, very slowly, “You should know that the Clockwork under the stairs has reactivated, and it’s patrolling the house. I haven’t had time to track it and work out its search patterns, but I think we should avoid it altogether.”

Jacques nodded solemnly, grunted in agreement, then turned his back and left the kitchen without a word.

* * *

“So why have you dragged me out here, again?” Garrett asked as he and Corvo scouted the corridors, voices low, looking out for the Clockwork.

He was still feeling unwell. Nauseous. The weakness that peaked when he passed out had ebbed away slightly, but still he felt very much incapable of walking much further than a single lap of the house. His own ungainly clumsiness bothered him enough that he found himself tensing up, expecting to make a mistake at any point. If the Clockwork Soldier really was as dangerous as Corvo had led him to believe, then one small mistake on either of their parts could be disastrous, lethal, even. Usually, Garrett worried more about Corvo’s apparent lack of self-awareness when it came to his own body movements, his noise, the heavy footfalls, but _now_ Garrett found himself worrying more about his own inability to operate as he usually did. He was stiff. Feverish. He _made mistakes_ when he was compromised in ways like this, and he had protested violently when Corvo asked him to join him in looking for whatever it was that the lever had opened.

“I need your help, Garrett,” Corvo said in a voice not much louder than a whisper, poking his head around a corner and scanning the corridor in front of him, “Those red lines, whatever they were, that you saw through the walls - have any of them changed in any way? Any new ones appear or disappear?”

Garrett Focused for a moment and checked the area for new information. Nothing new seemed to have appeared _just_ yet, but a hollow ache behind his right eye brought up more pressing concerns. He stopped. Corvo turned and looked at him, puzzled.

“I can’t,” Garrett said, reactively searching for shadows in which to hide himself, “Can’t do it.”

_“What?”_ Corvo asked, following Garrett as he flattened himself back against a wall and cast about for shelter, “What do you mean? Why not?”

_How to explain this._ How could he possibly explain to Corvo that he relied on a _plant_ to see beyond the walls? How much time would he have to waste explaining to Corvo something he couldn’t possibly understand? He ground his teeth and shuffled awkwardly where he stood. “This _thing,”_ he motioned vaguely up towards his Primal eye, “It comes at a price. It needs something to live. Poppy.”

“Poppy?”

“Don’t ask,” Garrett whispered, “I don’t have time to explain it, and I don’t really want to either. I don’t know how any of this works, but I need poppy in some form or another, preferably the flowers, but I suppose the seeds might do.”

“Where do you expect me to get poppies?” Corvo asked, slightly exasperated, and found Garrett shrinking away from him as he advanced a little too quickly. He backed off, allowed Garrett to regain his personal space, then waited for him to continue.

“I _don’t know,”_ Garrett said sharply, “I’m not the one who can’t keep track of what I’ve done or what’s changed because of it.”

Corvo scoffed, but left the shadows again, pausing for a second, listening closely to the silence. Nothing. He turned back to Garrett. “You are, quite honestly, our best shot at getting out of this place. Nobody has eyes better than you, even without your thing…” he motioned once again to his right eye, “Even if you can’t tell us exactly what’s happening behind the scenes, it’s still useful to have you here. You can go back to the laundry room if you really want.”

Garrett folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “No. It’s fine. I’ll come along.”

_“Thank you._ I’ll search the garden for poppies as soon as it gets light in the morning.”

Garrett grunted in response, but said nothing more. He’d already had to explain the Primal and how it affected him to Basso, and it had been excruciatingly difficult to put the experience into words. Repeating it was not something he had wanted to do any time soon, but it seemed that, mercifully, Corvo had far fewer questions than Basso had.

They worked their way onwards and upwards to the first floor. Garrett remembered vividly that most of the lines had collected around one of the doors here, halfway down the corridor, and frustratingly it had also been locked. It only seemed natural to try this, as it was one of the few likely things that could have been changed by Corvo’s lever-pulling habits.

Corvo looked down at Garrett, who nodded. They both prepared themselves, then opened the door.

Garrett hadn’t expected what greeted them when they entered, but it certainly wasn’t this. The room was small, comparable maybe to the other bedrooms in length, maybe a bit narrower in width, but it was dark even with the lights turned on. There were no windows to allow natural light in, and the floorboards protested with every step they took. Despite this, the room was clean. It _smelled_ clean, not old like some other parts of the house did. Panels lined one of the walls, accompanied by two simple wooden chairs. The panel contained buttons, switches, wiring and a numbered keypad, but only a few of these appeared to work. A backlit display headed the keypad, and some of the buttons were also lit from behind by flickering bulbs, displaying no numbers or letters. Corvo wandered up to one and pressed it, but there was no indication that he had done anything at all; no sounds, no movement, no nothing. Very much unlike the lever he had found with Jacques.

He stepped back and looked at Garrett. “What do you think?”

Garrett hummed under his breath and stepped up, surveying the panel carefully, bobbing idly on the balls of his feet. He felt Corvo staring at the backs of his arms, where his hands were clenched tightly. Stress had slowly been building up on him over the past few days, and it seemed that there was no discernable or easily accessible way of releasing it, so he held onto it. Kept it balled up inside him and hoped it would dissipate soon. He couldn’t help but wonder whether he actually _would_ get through this alive, or if he wouldn’t make it to the morning. 

He was completely and utterly helpless, and it _terrified_ him. He had _tried_ to push the fear down out of sight and ignore it for days now but it had grown, gained power over him, it made him shaky and tired and frightened.

The work he had chosen to align himself with came with its risks, yes, but there was an element of freedom. While on a job, he had never felt, save for one or two times, that he was actually in any serious danger, but back then he had been able to run, to abandon a job, to regroup and calm himself.

If he died now, what would he miss? The thought seemed to crawl up from the back of his throat but he pushed it down again and closed that part of himself off. There was _no time_ to be getting jumpy now. He would simply have to rely on Corvo’s protection; and even _then_ Corvo hadn’t exactly proven himself trustworthy. He said he regretted his actions all those years ago, but he hadn’t changed. He gripped the backs of his arms harder and began to pace.

“I don’t know,” he said blankly, glancing at the panel and then back to Corvo, “a panel, keypad, and unmarked buttons. Doesn’t really tell us much.”

Corvo keyed some numbers into the pad with a concerned, uncertain look on his face. “Is it worth trying to get it working if it might be a trap, anyway?”

Garrett chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought. It seemed that they had already exhausted almost every other means of escape, and the lever that Corvo said he had pulled had been too out of the way to realistically be used as a trap.

“Up to seven digits.” Corvo said, “The display accommodates up to seven digits. It doesn’t seem that it needs to be ten, though. You can enter fewer digits with this key, see.” He pressed a larger key towards the bottom right of the pad and the display flashed red three times.

Seven? That was an odd number for a keypad. A prime number without the significance of five or three, maybe? What was he supposed to make of this?

Corvo’s sudden movement distracted Garrett and dragged his mind back out of his thoughts. He watched for a second, spooked by the sudden movement, and watched Corvo as he made for the door again.

“Where are you going?”

Corvo turned and looked at Garrett, the door half-open, the handle still pressed down beneath his hand. “I need to tell Jacques about this.”

“What…? Why? Do I have to come?”

“He found that lever in the first place, he should know about it, and he’s got the best mind of us all. He’ll know how to figure this whole thing out.” A pause as Garrett folded his arms and looked at Corvo expectantly. “And no, you don’t have to come.”

Somehow, despite his previous negative experience with Jacques following the night before, Garrett still felt compelled to stick with Corvo for protection. He trusted him - or as close as Garrett could come to trust - to protect him from whoever was murdering people, but did he trust Corvo to protect him from the closest of his allies?

He did not.

Regardless, he decided to follow Corvo until they were within a close enough proximity to his nest that he could depart safely. He followed Corvo out the room and they set off down the corridor towards the grand staircase. 

“Poppies, right?” Corvo asked, absent-mindedly, “You needed poppies for your… thing. Eye?”

Garrett nodded silently, continued on for a few more seconds, but then stopped dead in his tracks.

He heard something.

Corvo turned as Garrett called his name in a frantic whispered tone and cocked his head. “What is it?”

_Thunk._

Where was it coming from?

_Thunk._

Garrett cast about, searching for the Clockwork but coming up unsuccessful. He backed away into the shadows of an alcove and crouched down, cloaking himself in darkness, hands pressed against the walls by his legs, head up, searching. Corvo had said these things could see and hear. If he made himself invisible and silent, it couldn’t find him. His heart hammered so hard, leaping against his ribs like a caged bird, that he feared it would give away his position. His hands, now slick with sweat, slipped against the wall and he crushed a panicked groan rising from the back of his throat. His tongue was sandpaper in his throat, and swallowing did no good to banish it.

The thunking came closer, and Corvo joined him shortly in the shadows. Garrett resisted the urge to push him out again, to tell him to run and not to put his safety at risk by compromising his position, but the breath wouldn’t come to his lungs and he found himself wheezing. Like he couldn’t fill his lungs properly.

“Are you alright?” Corvo silently mouthed at him as he crouched next to Garrett.

Garrett nodded, ignored the faintness once again beginning to wash over him and the starbursts exploding in the edges of his vision, and concentrated on staying silent. He couldn’t breathe. _He couldn’t breathe._

“Calm,” Corvo mouthed again, then pressed a hand to Garrett’s chest and held a gentle but firm pressure there. Just enough to feel the coolness of the wall against his back, and somehow calming. He dragged one breath in, held it for a couple of seconds, then released it. Again. And again.

The thunking got closer. Garrett gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, trying to lose himself in the colour of the carpet and the musty smell of the air. Just a few seconds and it would be--

A very bright light passed over Garrett and Corvo as they cowered in the alcove. 

The thunking stopped. 

Garrett didn’t even look up at the Clockwork as it towered over the two of them. The light was so bright, so _loud_ that it felt like it was boring into his very soul. He prepared himself to do something, _anything,_ but something hit him in the corner of the chest and he was pushed back behind Corvo, someone was telling him to _run,_ there was a shout.

Silence.

Ticking.

Whirring.

Garrett collapsed to his knees several paces later, twisted at the hip in an uncontrollable urge to see what he was up against, to see what these machines could do to someone as large as Corvo and, and, and… 

His only means of a safe escape would be gone.

He dragged in yet another breath through lungs that wouldn’t fill, through a windpipe that felt constricted like someone was garroting him. Through legs that had turned to water.

There was no spray of blood. There were no screams. There was no hum of metal through the air.

Corvo was cowering still in the alcove they had hidden in, and the Clockwork stood in front of him. If it were a human, it would have been looking down at him blankly, as there were no exclamations, no move to attack. The red light blinked silently in the socket of its eye, and the body jerked and shuddered with the movement of the mechanical parts on the chassis.

“Idling. Commence lens refocus.”

_Idling?_

His heart still thudded against his ribcage, but the terror had been replaced with confusion. If these machines were as dangerous as Corvo had led him to believe, then why wasn’t it attacking? Why was Corvo still crouching in front of it? Why hadn’t he run?

“Corvo?” Garrett asked after several moments as the machine juddered.

Corvo didn’t respond initially, but eventually moved. Stopped shaking and removed his arms from above his head.

_Had Corvo pushed him out of the way?_

Corvo looked up slowly, carefully as if he was afraid he might awaken it, studying the machine as Garrett finally collapsed onto his side, forcing himself to gulp down air to the best of his ability. 

_Had he tried to sacrifice himself to save Garrett’s life?_

The thought sent cold chills through him, but he pushed them away, like everything else. When he finally found himself able to move again, he looked back to Corvo and found him staring at him, a hollow look behind those eyes. The machine stood up tall, far taller than either of them, gave the floor one last sweep with its spotlight eyes, then moved on. The thunking followed it down the corridor and slowly, slowly disappeared from earshot.

It was a very long time before either of them moved again.

Garrett felt like his mind was breaking. The anxiety and fear had built up so quickly that it seemed to bulge at the seams of whatever mental container he had tried to trap them in.

“That… that was…”

“Terrifying,” Corvo said, finishing Garrett’s sentence for him. Garrett couldn’t help but notice that Corvo had gone very pale, that he was shaking visibly. He didn’t want to press him to do anything, to respond to anything he said, but questions swirled in his mind, demanded attention, needed to be answered.

“Why?” Garrett finally asked.

Corvo breathed out heavily through his nose and closed his eyes. Bit his lip. Then threw his head back and laughed. It was a roaring, booming, manic kind of laughter, the sort of laughter that only came after unexpectedly continuing to live against all the odds. Garrett looked at him, puzzled.

Even at the best of times, Garrett found people difficult to predict. He would have expected that, after an event as terrifying as facing down death, the reaction would be a little less… positive. Should he join in? He didn’t feel like laughing. He wanted to find his nest and curl himself into a ball and wait until this whole nightmare was over.

“Come on,” Corvo said, as he walked over to Garrett and held out a hand, waiting for him to take it, “We should go find Jacques. All that fear and it’s not even hostile. How _stupid.”_ He spat the last word out as if it was dirty. “I mean… If they can’t program a robot to kill the correct people, then--”

Corvo’s voice was cut off abruptly by the sound of a cannon and the low chanting of men on the outside.

"Restrict the lying tongue that is like a spark in a man's mouth. It is such a little thing, yet from one spark an entire city may burn to the ground.”

* * *

They found Jacques in the room beneath the wine cellar with the levers, curled up in foetal, his skin red and swollen, bubbling with welts, hot to the touch. The grate of the boiler hung open, partially dislodged by the force of the blast, still red hot. Jacques’s hair, moustache and eyebrows were partially burnt, his clothes blackened and singed and smouldering at the edges. It would seem, to an outsider, that the boiler had exploded, undergone catastrophic failure and the pressure had simply boiled over at the wrong time.

None of those present were convinced that this was an accident. It was abundantly clear that the boiler had been set up to fail.

Lucy, who had found them soon after the cannon had gone off, didn’t last long in the room. Her face, already ashen grey at the prospect of another death that they had failed to prevent, turned ghost white, turned on her heel without a word and left the boiler room as soon as she found her mentor’s remains. Garrett was blatantly trying to avoid looking at the scene, maybe not quite sure how to react, twisting his fingers together in anxiety.

Corvo just felt sick.

They had been _on to_ something, together. Corvo _needed_ him to work out what was going on and who to blame, how to escape. He had seen him not three hours ago, been talking, discussing theories and exchanging questions. He looked at Jacques’s corpse, curled up on the floor. Did this mean that Jindosh wasn’t responsible, or had he managed to escape when Lucy wasn’t looking? The Royal Spymaster. Who was going to do the job now?

Such a pointless thing to get upset about. Jacques had a _wife._ What would she do? He was meant to retire years ago, and he had paid for his service with his life.

“I’m going,” Garrett said, breaking the silence, turning and heading towards the ladder, “It stinks in here.”

Of course it wasn’t about the smell. Garrett’s voice wobbled violently when he spoke, it was breathy and uncertain. He was wheezing again. Corvo looked down at Jacques’s body as a million different thoughts raced through his head. Would it be lacking in poor taste to leave him here? 

Judging by the state of his body, Corvo doubted that the flesh would hold together long enough for him to pick him up, transport him to the wine cellar, and wrap him up in a sheet. There was no way he was planning on returning to this place. The very thought was revolting.

No. Garrett needed him more than Jacques. Garrett was actively in danger, and Jacques, as crass as it sounded, was far beyond saving. There was nothing that anyone could do for him now, after his pulse had stopped and no breath flowed from between his lips. A glint of gold caught Corvo’s eye, and following it, he found a small box that appeared to have fallen out of Jacques’s pocket. Tentatively, Corvo picked it up, cautious and aware of the possibility that this too was still hot, and turned it over in his hands. Jacques’s cigarette box. 

He didn’t know why, but something felt _right_ about keeping it. He slipped the box into his pocket, then stood and nodded awkwardly at the corpse lying on the floor in front of him. What was he supposed to do? Say a few words? Bid him goodbye? Did any of that mean anything in a place like this?

Corvo rubbed a calloused thumb over the edge of the cigarette box and made do with a simple, “I’m sorry. Thank you, Jacques,” before following Garrett down the ladder and into the water-filled corridor.

How was it so hot for this time of night? The very air seemed to press in on him. 

“Garrett?”

Garrett ignored him and continued onwards, splashing to the ladder and then climbed it, slipped but then regained his footing. Corvo had no doubt that Garrett wouldn’t do anything stupid, but he felt he should keep an eye on him, _just in case._

“Garrett? _Garrett!”_

No response. Corvo followed him up through the kitchen, then the corridors, then by the back door leading to the garden. He caught the door to the laundry room as Garrett passed through it, wordless, and followed him to the back of the room, squeezing past the shelves of linen and cotton, expecting either to find Garrett curled up, wrapped in his sheets, or simply angry, aggressive and dismissive.

He was neither.

“Garrett?” Corvo asked again as he edged into the darkness, moving slowly on the off-chance that he tripped over something on the floor. He found a wall and followed it, sliding his hand along the smooth painted plaster, shuffling on, on, on.

Garrett was gasping for air. He was, indeed, curled up in sheets, but propped up against the wall, one leg splayed out in front of him, bunching in on himself, as if trying to shield his chest. He failed to react when Corvo called his name - the only noises that came from him were short, sharp whimpers combined with the horrible, desperate rasping.

Corvo sat down in front of him. “I’m here, Garrett. Is it alright if I touch you?”

A long pause.

“Tap once for no, and twice for yes.”

One - and then two taps on the floor. Corvo slid his hands onto Garrett’s ankles and then worked them up so they came to rest on his knees.

“We’re going to breathe together, okay? In for four, then hold for seven, and out for eight. I’ll count for you. Ready?”

Two taps.

Corvo gave Garrett’s knees a reassuring squeeze and counted to four out loud. Although it was difficult to see anything in the darkness, judging by the noises Garrett was making, he was trying to follow Corvo’s instructions, at least. It was a start. Once Corvo reached the count of four, he reminded Garrett to hold the breath for the count of seven, then began to count upwards again from one.

Garrett lasted four counts before he let out the breath, erratic and uncontrolled. Regardless, Corvo was pleased. Even _that_ was a huge improvement on the jerky, frantic gasping he had been suffering mere minutes ago.

“You’re doing really well, Garrett,” Corvo said gently, reassuring him, “Again, now. In for four. Let’s go.”

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

“Hold it for seven - come on, I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He proceeded to count to seven again, slowly, deliberately, and this time, Garrett managed to hold it all the way to the end. He let the breath out in one long sigh at the end of those seconds rather than controlling the release, doing it _slowly_ like Corvo had told him, but again, it was progress. Garrett’s legs twitched slightly beneath Corvo’s hands, his body relaxed only just enough that his muscles didn’t shake and cramp, but Corvo still felt a warmth in his stomach, a pride as they continued with the breathing exercises and slowly but surely, Garrett calmed down with time. Mistakes faded away with every repetition. The guttural wheezing faded away until Corvo could barely even hear him breathing, and then he repeated it again, for good measure.

They fell into silence as Garrett regained control over his own body. Corvo wasn’t sure whether he should say anything, to ask Garrett if he was okay, if there was anything he could do to make it better but every time the questions appeared on the very tip of his tongue, he would think better of it, shut his mouth, allow the silence to continue unbroken.

It was stupid. He would be stupid even to ask that. Of _course_ he wasn’t okay. Corvo himself wasn’t okay, but he was lucky enough that his body wouldn’t betray him at a moment’s notice like Garrett’s.

A very long time passed. Corvo’s back began to cramp as he sat on the floor at an odd angle, one of his legs tucked beneath him, so he moved and sat back to the wall, just close enough for Garrett to feel comforted by, but not so close that he would feel trapped. Something about this place made death seem so… so _ordinary,_ purely from the force of the circumstances. How could they find time to mourn and reflect when they were fighting for their lives?

He sighed again into the darkness, then flinched as something small and warm touched his hand.

Another hand? Long, spindly fingers found his palm and wrapped themselves around it. Squeezed. Corvo’s stomach jolted. He turned towards Garrett, looking in his general direction through the darkness, unable to think of what to say. 

Instead, he took Garrett’s hand in his own and squeezed back, trying to comfort him. It was _possible_ that he was looking for some kind of physical reassurance; Corvo couldn’t remember exactly how Garrett sought comfort back in the Clocktower, but to the best of his knowledge, cuddling and hand-holding hadn’t exactly been Garrett’s go-to. It was possible that he’d changed a lot more than Corvo had realised.

“Everything okay?” Corvo asked. Adrenaline pumped hot through his blood at the thought of a rekindled relationship with Garrett, but he dared not get his hopes up or, gods forbid, let Garrett know exactly how he was feeling.

Garrett hummed beneath his breath, then shuffled closer to Corvo, closer and closer until their hips touched and his chest pressed up against Corvo’s arm.Corvo’s heart leapt in excitement and anticipation, feared it would thud so loud that Garrett would be able to hear it but regardless, he moved his other arm, raised it to Garrett’s shoulders and pulled him close.

“We’re going to get out of here,” Corvo whispered as Garrett settled into his arms, “You and me, we’ll make it out alive.”

Garrett grunted yet again and Corvo felt him shuffle into a comfortable position within his grasp, further, down into his chest where he stopped for a moment and Corvo rocked them both back and forth slightly, stroked his hair, pressed his head into his chest. He wanted to wrap Garrett up and _promise_ him that he would be safe, to _protect_ him from all the horrible events of the past, present and future.

But Garrett didn’t stop there.

He shuffled again. Corvo released him, thinking that maybe he was simply uncomfortable or in a bad position, if he was struggling to breath or he was too hot. Corvo released Garrett for a moment, giving him time to do what he needed to do, then found Garrett shuffling onto his lap. Two small hands pressed on his chest, and seconds later, he was on the floor and Garrett was climbing on him, his lips suddenly pressed to Corvo’s, sat straddled across his stomach.

“What--” Corvo’s question was cut off abruptly by Garrett’s mouth again, the sweet kisses that Garrett peppered across his face, down his cheeks, lining his jaw and his neck. 

And Corvo kissed him back.

Together, they rolled ever so slowly onto their sides and used that moment, the moment that Corvo had waited so long for, revelled in Garrett’s trust of him, shuffled one hand under Garrett’s head and used the other one to steady themselves. Garrett pressed into him further. Corvo felt blood rushing to his cock, straining against his clothing.

_This is wrong._

Corvo ignored the voice in his head and focused on giving Garrett every bit of attention and love he deserved, returning his kisses ten times over, laughing and smiling and holding him, trying to lose himself in the moment. Garrett sat up, pushed Corvo onto his back, then straddled him again.

A moment, and Garrett’s lips left Corvo’s face. The pressure on Corvo’s stomach increased for a moment, and the sound of fabric rustling punctuated the silence.

_This isn’t Garrett._

The pressure redistributed itself again as Garrett leant forwards again and made contact. Suddenly, Corvo’s hands no longer roamed over leather, but over flesh. One slim arm supported his weight on Corvo’s shoulder, and the other disappeared, moved down to his chest, and then further.

“Wait--”

Once again, Corvo’s voice was cut off by the hand now stroking his length through his trousers. He choked back a moan, bit his bottom lip so hard that the taste of iron welled back into his mouth, resisted the urge to buck up into Garrett’s hand. In return, the weight of the hand disappeared from his crotch, reappeared on his shoulder, and Garrett was somehow trying to grind down onto him and remove Corvo’s shirt simultaneously.

By all the _gods,_ he wanted it. _He wanted it so bad._ His hand hovered over Garrett’s hip, preparing to take him in his own hands and direct him, but something stopped him.

This was wrong.

“Garrett, stop,” Corvo said as he tried to sit up, “Wait, listen--”

Garrett ignored him and kept going, abandoning the shirt and lowering himself back to Corvo’s face, connecting with him again. The warmth of his lips sent exhilarated spikes down the back of his neck, but fear presented itself along with the thrill.

Those weren’t just lips on Corvo’s face.

Something warm and wet dripped onto Corvo’s cheek, where it ran off the side of his face and pooled by his ear. Instinctively, he reached up and brushed it away, but Garrett still failed to break contact. He seemed to sink himself and everything he had into Corvo’s lips and another droplet landed on his other cheek. Then another by his mouth. He fought to get Garrett off him. 

Tears dripped - then cascaded - down Garrett’s face. His stomach, yet again painfully concave, juddered against Corvo’s body. His chest hitched. A sob broke free and finally, _finally,_ he and Corvo broke contact. Garrett choked on the whimper as it forced itself free of his throat, then made for Corvo’s face, reaching out, trying to kiss him despite the tears.

“Stop that,” Corvo said, barely containing the panic that had set in, and clamped Garrett to his chest to prevent him from trying to kiss him again. One hand placed to the back of his head, cradling him by his shoulder, enduring the choked sobs and the erection still straining uncomfortably beneath Garrett’s weight. He sounded near-hysterical. He made no effort to free himself from Corvo’s grip, but wept uncontrollably, shuddering with every laboured breath until Corvo was sure he might vomit. Still, he held the thief. Always. He rocked them both from side to side again, hoping against hope that maybe it would help Garrett, and even then it took an era (or felt like it) for him to calm down enough that he was able to speak.

“I’m going to die,” Garrett said, choking on the words as they filled the gaps between his sobs, “I’m going to die and I haven’t been loved.”

“You… _what?”_

The words made Corvo reel. They brought a sour feeling to the pit of his stomach and they made his heart drop.

“I-- I haven’t…”

_“Gods,_ Garrett,” Corvo said, suddenly fighting back his own tears. He clutched Garrett to his chest even harder, hard enough that he worried that Garrett might not be able to breathe. What was he supposed to _say_ to that? Where would he even _begin?_ “You don’t… Garrett, sex isn’t _love._ Sex is nothing like love. Gods, Garrett…” He trailed off.

Garrett seemed completely lost in his own misery. He had long since given up trying to kiss Corvo, and did nothing, hung over Corvo’s shoulder as he played with the short black hair and its silver streaks, still rocking gently. Garrett was obviously unwell. The stress had been getting to him and he had bottled it up until it boiled over and Corvo _hadn’t even noticed._

Time passed. Corvo encouraged Garrett to join him in the breathing exercises they had completed earlier, but he was listless. It was difficult even to get a response from him, and after a while, he gave up and resorted to simply holding him.

“You _are_ loved,” Corvo finally said. “You will always _be_ loved. Basso loves you. I love you. You will never, ever have to have sex just to be loved. Oh, Garrett…” He held the thief close to his chest, wrapped him up, rested his chin on Garrett’s head, holding back tears of his own. “I’m so sorry.”

Garrett sniffled. “‘S n’thing.”

It wasn’t nothing. Corvo was so deeply disturbed by what Garrett had said that he still didn’t know how to respond to it. Did he need to say anything else? Would Garrett take in what he had said? He seemed so fragile, so breakable, so small that he might shatter at any time. And he had been through so much…

Minutes. Minutes of silence as he held Garrett to his chest.

Once he could be certain that Garrett wouldn’t immediately crumble if he put him down, Corvo shuffled him off his lap and onto the floor. Then, he found the nest of pillows and sheets that Garrett had made up, settled himself into it, then found Garrett with his hands. Garrett followed without comment, crawled from the floor into the sheets and curled up in their makeshift bed while Corvo cradled him.

The stress of his panic had left them both exhausted. It didn’t take Garrett long to fall asleep, breathing softly as Corvo held him in the safety of his arms, twitching slightly as he sank deeper and deeper. His hands felt so small in his Corvo’s own, his arms thin and his face gaunt. It disturbed Corvo to think that he had only ever known him as thin, malnourished and weak. There must have been a time when Garrett was strong, powerful and fast, but he hadn’t had chance to see him like that. The thought twisted in his guts like a worm.

The night passed. Corvo listened to the gurgle of the pipes and the thump of the Clockwork Soldier as it patrolled the corridors.

Garrett had taken minutes to fall asleep. Corvo took hours.


	16. Day 5, The Wanton Flesh: Part 1

Garrett was slow to wake. Light filtered under the door leading into the corridor, casting a warm glow across the floor, highlighting the motes of dust that sailed through the air. His eyes, glued shut by sleep, were difficult to open, and it took a moment to orient himself again. He spent one blissful moment basking in the warmth of the room before memories of the previous night rushed back to him in one horrible whirlwind.

His stomach turned. He shifted himself back onto his side and sighed, the emptiness in his stomach now too intense to ignore. He had _panicked._ He had lost his cool and laid bare his fears, the fear he had worked so hard to bottle up and keep hidden from those who might exploit it. The memory of Corvo beneath him as he ground down into his hips and filled his mouth with every part of Corvo that he could find without undressing him brought warmth to his cheeks, then tingling hotness. It made him cringe, even now. It made his insides writhe like worms.

Corvo. He turned around abruptly, expecting to find Corvo still lying behind him, wrapping him in his arms as he had done the night before as they’d fallen asleep together. But he had gone. What had been a safe, warm blanket had now disappeared, leaving him with nothing but the empty sheets, kicked into tangled knots down by his knees.

What was he supposed to make of that? Had Corvo disappeared the second he had fallen asleep, sought to separate himself from Garrett because he _hated_ the idea of spending time with someone who would come onto him with no warning at all? What had he been _thinking?_

Further thought (despite Garrett’s concerted efforts _not_ to think about it) led to other, deeper concerns. He had opened himself up to manipulation by Corvo, he had opened himself up to betrayal as he had done before, and what good had that done him all the way back then? That had left him damaged for _years_ , and combined with the whole _Erin_ thing, he wasn’t sure why anyone would ever let themselves trust another person.

He knew it was silly, but that was how it was.

He found himself ruminating. He was going to _die._ What was he doing here, stewing in his own misery when there was still even the smallest possibility, a sliver of hope that he might still be able to escape in one piece?

Footsteps down the corridor had him curling in on himself and backing into the shadow. They weren’t heavy and mechanical like the Clockwork’s (and he wasn’t sure whether he’d prefer to face one of them or Corvo at this moment, even though the automatons frightened him), but lighter. Quick and agile. He had become skilled at judging a man’s athletic ability based on the sound of his footfalls.

The door opened, throwing the room into sharp relief. Garrett prepared himself to run but stopped himself at the sight of Corvo entering the room. The fear and embarrassment didn’t leave him. He tensed as a face appeared around the corner, held it as Corvo sat down opposite him, cross legged, and placed a jug of water and a plate of food on the floor.

“You’re lucky,” Corvo began, seemingly oblivious to the tension in Garrett’s body. “Look what I found in the ballroom this morning. Poppyseed muffins.” Garrett simply watched as he pushed the plate along the floor and towards him. “You like sweet things, don’t you? I remember that.”

A moment of silence as Garrett chewed on his words, thinking carefully about what he should say next. He was somewhat surprised that Corvo still remembered his food preferences from all those years ago, that he preferred sweet foods by far over others, but he chose not to mention it. What was even more odd to Garrett, was that food featuring _poppy of all things_ had just turned up, not even a day after he had told Corvo about the source of his Primal power. Very slowly, he sat up and surveyed the plate in front of him. “I do.”

Corvo tried to smile but it came off as forced. “You said you needed poppy to… see things, didn’t you?”

Garrett grunted, picked up a muffin, and studied it carefully. “I don’t trust it.”

“You want me to test it for you?” Corvo asked and picked one up. Garrett couldn’t help but notice that Corvo, too, now appeared to be suspicious about what he was eating. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, broke off a piece and tested it for taste before actually beginning to eat.

Garrett watched silently, waiting for the effects of poison to present themselves.

None came.

Corvo must have been hungry. Garrett could see the way he looked at the muffins after finishing his own so quickly, but he seemed to let it go without resentment. Corvo’s face relaxed and he slumped back against the wall, expelling a satisfied sigh. “If it is poisoned, at least they taste good. I’d hate to die eating poisoned food that tastes bad.”

The room became silent as the joke fell flat. Corvo shrugged at Garrett and pushed the plate even further towards him. “Eat. I’m not going to let you go until you put something in your stomach. If you don’t like these, I can bring you something else, but it might be worth seeing if it helps your eye.”

Eventually, after another protracted period of silence, Garrett conceded. He leant forward, plucked one muffin off the tray, and investigated it as he always did, avoiding meeting Corvo’s eye. He ate in silence, unwilling to even try to make conversation, refused to let the hunger that exploded in his stomach at the first mouthful show itself to Corvo. He finished one, then another. As Corvo reclined back against the wall, Garrett made his way through the remaining muffins, appreciating the sugar on his tongue and the bulk in his stomach.

Corvo looked like he was about to say something. He drew in a breath, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he worked out how to word it, and then plunged in anyway without regard. “About last night—”

“No,” Garrett said.

So, they left it at that.

Garrett could not think of anything he wanted less than to talk about the previous night. Even thinking about it made him feel sick, and if anything, he expected that Corvo would feel the same way. The very fact that he had brought it up at all surprised Garrett.

 _Gods,_ what had he been _thinking?_

Although his stomach was full and his Focus had been replenished to some limited degree, something about the situation worried Garrett. Had it really been a coincidence for foods containing poppy seeds to turn up the day after he had mentioned it, or was he dealing with something more sinister than that? The thought of someone following him, listening to his words and tracking his every movement sent shivers down his spine. But even if someone _was_ listening to him through the environment, as silly as it sounded, why would they actively help him? And how had they gotten close enough to hear?

It struck him that he might never actually get answers to all these questions. It was entirely possible that, live or die, the inner workings of this house would never be revealed. His mind burned with questions, ones that he was so used to investigating freely and at will. _Gods,_ it was _infuriating._ Were they not so completely and utterly _fucked_ , Garrett would be in a better state of mind to work it out. Instead, he was so panicked at the thought of dying to some random stranger that he couldn’t even think properly anymore.

‘Courage,’ he found a voice in his head whispering encouraging words to him. ‘You found a way out of a burning Clocktower, blinded by migraine. You can do this.’

He shook his head. It would be cruel to believe thoughts like that. Some things were within his control, but this was just…

Not.

He had thought that his run-in with the Whalers had taught him what _lack of control_ meant. He had thought that being completely at Corvo’s mercy while he recovered and regained the ability to function _was_ the epitome of helplessness. At least then, he could have tried to climb down the Clocktower exterior, even though there was little chance of survival if he fell. Here, he didn’t even get the opportunity to climb down and escape into the darkness. Hell, even if he wanted to find shadow _inside_ the house, he would be severely restricted in what was accessible to him. There was always the garden, but something frightened him about taking refuge in a place where another man had been murdered, where it was so open and he was so vulnerable to attacks.

“We need to find that Clockwork and destroy it before it turns and starts murdering people,” Corvo finally said. The words cut the air like a knife through butter. “At least then we might be able to kid ourselves that staying in groups is a good idea. It’d be a bloodbath if it found us in a group on the attack.”

Garrett nodded silently and stood up - slowly this time. It was true that he had eaten, that a little energy had returned to his brain and his hands had stopped shaking, but he was under no illusion that he was truly in top form. He needed to know his limits, and they had to play the game very carefully from now on if they wanted to survive.

Corvo waited for Garrett to prepare himself, and encouraged him to drink the rest of the water in the jug before they both made their way out of the laundry room. They walked to the end of the corridor, maintaining their silence as a precautionary measure, looked down the corridor, and upon finding nothing, continued.

In a way they were lucky, if it could be called luck at all. The house was silent now, the dwindling number of occupants no longer in a mood to interact with each other or even to go about their daily activities, leaving Garrett and Corvo free to listen for the thumping of the Clockwork. What had once been civilised breakfast in the ballroom had degraded to people picking at the food still placed out for them every day like clockwork. Often, it seemed, the others would take food to their rooms and eat alone. How quickly they had fallen from grace.

They found the Clockwork on the first floor, patrolling the back staircase that led to the scullery. Corvo stopped Garrett in his tracks as they found it, although Garrett could have worked that out for himself, and they backed behind a corner then looked at each other, concerned. Nothing seemed to have changed with the way the Clockwork moved, or any of its outward appearance, but they knew better than to assume nothing had changed. It was more than possible that it had been re-programmed in the night, instructed to attack on sight and without question.

Corvo caught Garrett’s eye and whispered at him in such a low voice that Garrett could barely make out what was being said. “We can rewire it, or we can attack it. I _do_ have a rewiring kit, by chance, but we need to get it on its back first so it can’t kill us before we reach it. I just need to find a way to attack it hard and fast so it doesn’t have a chance to swing back.”

“Great. So really, our only option _is_ to attack?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Corvo leant back for a moment, then returned to looking at the automaton. “Maybe Jindosh knows an exploit that we can take advantage of.”

Garrett thoroughly doubted that Jindosh would tell them anything after they locked him up for more than a day and accused him of murdering people, even if he did remember how the Clockwork Soldiers worked, but said nothing to Corvo. Maybe they would be able to convince Jindosh that it was for their collective good to shut down this machine while they still had the chance.

Garrett hadn’t seen Jindosh since he’d attacked him in the garden two days previously, and he was anxious to avoid him again, and especially avoid contact without Corvo’s presence. He was lucky that he got away from the encounter with little more than a cut to his upper arm. It was painful, but he’d had worse in his time, and it was still probably one of the better possible scenarios. Jindosh could have killed him.

He shook it from his mind; there was no point in thinking about it now.

The two continued to observe the Clockwork for several minutes. It marched aimlessly around the lower section of the corridor for a while, then turned and marched back towards the rest of the hallway and the grand staircase. Garrett pulled Corvo into the nearest bedroom as it approached their hiding spot, closed the door until it was cracked open, then stared at it through the keyhole while Corvo took the opening. 

The thumping of the Clockwork’s feet eventually faded as it continued down the corridor and took a left turn, and with it, the atmosphere in the room lightened considerably. _Imposing_ would be an understatement. Garrett knew that, even if he never saw the machine again, it would still be too soon.

Several minutes later, satisfied that the Clockwork had disappeared down the corridor for good, Corvo edged the door open and slipped out, acutely aware of how creaky the doors could be. He turned briefly to check that Garrett was still following him, then together they returned to the staircase and descended as they stuck to the shadows. 

The sound of music and shouting greeted them. A scratchy old song on a gramophone that they - whoever it was that was currently in the ballroom - had found somewhere in the house. His heart sank. Corvo looked at Garrett and raised one eyebrow. “I don’t think either you or I are going to like what’s going on here. Maybe you should return to the laundry room and I can sort this out.”

Garrett nodded. It was true. He felt completely and utterly incapable of dealing with the remaining house occupants at the moment, and doubted that they’d particularly appreciate his presence either, so instead, he nodded at Corvo, turned, and took his leave.

* * *

The ballroom was warm. Far too warm. Corvo wasn’t sure _what_ it was about the heat that seemed to amplify the sound of the gramophone, but it did, and it did it well. The lights had been turned off and replaced with candles and oil lamps, scattered around the room, some standing proudly on the table in the centre of the room, some on the floor by the walls. The gramophone had been perched precariously on the edge of the table. A woman’s voice rang out as the record spun beneath the needle, the scratches in the sound adding a strange quality to her voice. The bell of the gramophone was tarnished, slightly dented - perhaps it had been dropped when it had been pulled out of storage - but it seemed to have no other effect on the quality of the sound.

The room also smelled like alcohol.

In fact, despite the veritable feast that was laid out on the table and all the candles burning around him, it was almost all he could smell. Bottles in an array of colours, shapes and sizes stood on the table, most of them open, many of those also half-empty. A couple had been finished and discarded beneath the table, even though the party seemed like it had only just begun. From the laundry room he and Garrett had not heard any indication of a gathering, and when Corvo had gone to get Garrett some food, the room had been empty. It must have happened recently.

The room was messy, it was true, but the occupants were messier still. Something about the bareness of the room scared Corvo. There had been so many of them only a few days before, and their numbers were dwindling. Giovanni, Lucy and Jindosh sat in the room together, each sporting their own bottles, some by the feet of their chairs, some still in their hands. Lucy had managed to find a fat cigar somewhere; she held it between her teeth, standing on the table, and barely acknowledged Corvo as he entered the room, too engaged in her drunk conversation with Jindosh and Giovanni to pay too much heed.

“Lucy?” he asked, surprised at the turn of events. She had always been the sensible one, and Corvo had never known her to drink much more than a glass of wine at ceremonial dinners, let alone smoke cigars. She was reluctant to look up at him. Corvo had to work hard to coax a response out of her, and even then, it was clipped, short, punctuated by the conversation she was still trying to carry on with the others. “Lucy, what is the meaning of this? Are you _drunk?”_

She gave him a look. Corvo could tell that she was about to roll her eyes at him. He wasn’t sure exactly how much she’d had to drink, but it was clearly already _far too much._

“What is it?”

Corvo didn’t want to have to repeat himself, but he did so regardless and without comment. “Why are you drinking?”

“I need permission to drink now?” she asked, taking another swig as she went. “What are you? My father?”

A pause. This wasn’t Lucy. Not at all. How was he supposed to react to that? He stood there, arms folded across his chest, mouth slightly open in shock. “No. I just—”

He trailed off as he noticed Jindosh, half-folded over on himself, staring at him. His eyes were narrowed, yet somehow unfocused, his hair ruffled and greasy, and the knife that he had attacked Garrett with was held between his hands, gently, as if it might break. The tip rested between the forefinger and thumb of one hand, and he slowly rotated it with the other, which was holding the handle. The way Jindosh was looking at Corvo made his toes curl and his hair stand on end. Like he was already planning when and how he was going to strike back for the day he had spent in isolation at his behest. Corvo looked over at Lucy, not sure what he should say, but all she did was shrug and laugh in response, a dry, cold chuckle.

“He’s not guilty. He _can’t_ be. So I let him out. We were wrong. We assumed that somehow he’d been responsible for the other deaths, but we were wrong.” She took a long drag on the cigar and regarded Corvo from the top of the table. “Now, whose fault is that?”

Corvo opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again. She was right. It was impossible for Jindosh to have committed murder, the previous night, anyway. He had been locked away, and whether he knew that Jacques had cleared the corridor beneath the wine cellar was debatable. It was possible that Lucy might have told him, if Jacques had told her, but even then…

He was still innocent. The odds were far too slim. It didn’t matter that he appeared to be actively planning how to strike back. They had no reason to restrain him again, and Corvo found it unlikely that Lucy or Giovanni would let him. Neither of them were welcoming to him, right now. In fact, they looked downright hostile.

“So what does that tell us?” Lucy said, slurring as she gestured from atop the table. “Who else could possibly have killed him? There’s me, his apprentice. Jindosh, who was locked up at the time. Giovanni, a high-ranking diplomat, who has been in mourning for days. Then there’s you, and that friend of yours.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head, taking another drink. “I find it _very_ hard to believe that your friend is totally innocent here… or even you, for that matter.”

Jindosh and Giovanni both murmured in agreement, but said nothing more. Corvo narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re not saying that I’m somehow complicit here, are you?”

She shrugged and pursed her lips. “What if I did? It seems very obvious to me that we’re about to die anyway, so what are _you_ going to do about it? Put me in prison? Execute me? What _more_ damage could you _possibly_ do now?”

 _More_ damage? What did she mean? He said nothing, but looked at her, hurt. She raised her bottle at him and paused for a second, as if considering what to say.

“A toast, to our _beloved_ Emperor, Corvo Attano. The man who fucked the Empire up so spectacularly that he lost control of the seat of it all, Dunwall. The man who pissed off _so_ many people that now almost his entire council has been assassinated. The man who killed us all.” She took a breath, then downed what remained in the bottle, and when she came back up, she stumbled over her own feet. Corvo made no move to prevent her from falling off the table, yet somehow she remained upright, after a fashion.

There were more murmurs from behind Corvo, and looking back over his shoulder, he found Giovanni standing, his glass raised towards Corvo, his eyes cold. Jindosh had managed to pick himself up for long enough to send a nod in Corvo’s direction, but it was certain that if he tried to follow suit right now, he’d drop something or hurt himself.

Corvo fought fury that was now threatening to boil over. He clenched teeth and fists alike, began to move his sword hand to a weapon that wasn’t even there, felt his face grow red hot from the embarrassment. Lucy appeared to have noticed him trying to reach for his sword, and raised her eyebrows, giggling.

“Too late for all that, now!” she said. “It’s a shame it took all this time for you to show us your true colours.”

Corvo grabbed one of the bottles from the table as Lucy watched him, her eyes burning into his face as he pointedly avoided staring back. He gripped its neck in his hands as he turned on his heel and left the room hurriedly, before the need to start throwing punches overtook him. He was painfully aware of how quiet the room was, how his boots squeaked on the floor, the thundering of his heart in his chest and his heavy breathing, but Lucy’s words rang out still.

“I pray to all the gods that we never meet again, Corvo Attano.”

And with that, he finally slammed the door shut behind him, blocking her out.

Instead of going straight back to Garrett, he rounded the corner and huddled himself in the scullery, back in the toilets where he had gone before to get space and peace. He sat down on the floor at the far end of the room beneath a row of porcelain sinks, lifted the bottle to his mouth and grabbed the cork, pulling it out with his teeth, then drank. One hand ran through his hair distractedly, trying to ground himself with the feeling of it running between his fingers, trying to slow his hammering heart, trying to quell the rage in his chest and throat. The fact that _Lucy_ had been the one to verbally attack him had caught him by surprise, more than anything else about the confrontation. She had been through a lot over the past few days, had barely even slept over the last forty-eight hours. She, like the rest of them, had been taking food from the ballroom at intervals, but if she had any sense about her (and on the Outsider’s left hand, she had more than the rest of them put together), she would have been worried about poison.

None of that had sent her over the edge like Jacques’s death.

It seemed almost like a switch had been flipped. Corvo had never known her to act out like this. She had always been kind and friendly to him, and had been deeply dedicated to her job, her professionalism. The sudden switch in behaviour was what had Corvo more worried and upset than anything else; somehow, the end felt ever closer now. When they had worked cohesively, been cooperative, it had seemed that they’d had more of a chance.

A thought struck Corvo.

They were being manipulated.

And _he_ wasn’t, by any means, immune from the effects of that manipulation.

He mentally took a step back and observed his position, then looked at the bottle still gripped in his hand, white-knuckled and strained. He thought of Garrett, huddling in the laundry room, and his tearful breakdown the night before. He thought of all the things he still stood to lose, and although there wasn’t much left, all wasn’t lost. 

He still had to get Garrett out, and fuck everything else.

Slowly, slowly, he picked himself up off the floor again. The room seemed to spin slightly around him as the buzz of the alcohol kicked in, and he gripped the rim of the sink in front of him, studying himself in the mirror. It was a depressing sight. A greying, thin face with ropey, greasy hair looked back at him, his stubble unchecked, his clothes creased and crumpled. How far he had fallen in such a short space of time.

The bottle scraped on the tiles as Corvo stooped and reached for it. Then, slowly, he lifted it up and studied the brown glass glittering in the fluorescent light, watching the patterns dancing across the bowl of the sink.

Then, as if freeing himself by the action, he poured it all away, and watched the froth as it chased the liquid down the drain.

* * *

“You’re sure this is the only way?” Garrett asked, his voice lowered, as they crept through the corridors once again, following the sound of the Clockwork’s heavy feet. “There’s nothing else we can do?”

Some energy had returned to Garrett over the past few hours, and sure enough, the poppy seed muffins had restored some of the Primal’s energy to his body. He could feel it, buzzing inside him, crackling in his blood, although it didn’t threaten to break free as it did when he was properly rested and recharged with poppy flowers. The taste was bad, but the warmth and… otherworldly energy they brought to him were worth it. Covering them up with sugar, or simply extracting the seeds and using them in his food, wasn’t something he had seriously considered before. 

“Really,” Corvo said, creeping out in front of him, crouched down, feet soft on the carpet. “What else can we do? There are no weapons capable of taking it down from a safe distance. We get this wrong, and it kills us both. Our only option is to try to rewire it.”

“We couldn’t lure it into a room and trap it?”

Corvo shook his head. “Too dangerous. I’m not going to risk my life or yours to try to trap it in a room where it might be able to punch its way out, anyway. Those blades look more than capable of destroying a door if it needs to, and we don’t know how its programming has been modified. I’ve never seen it before, but I don’t think it would be too hard to modify it to destroy its target at the cost of its surroundings.”

“I guess that would make sense,” Garrett said as they rounded a corner and continued to track the noise. “If these things are used as security for the rich, they wouldn’t want all their stuff destroyed along with the common thief.” He laughed dryly at the thought of coming face-to-face with one of these monstrosities, unprepared.

“We don’t know anything yet,” Corvo continued. “It _could_ just be here to intimidate, but that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. Not with you around, anyway. The others can do what they like, but it seems it’s me and you against this house now. Nothing else matters.”

Something in Garrett softened at the remark. It always did. Corvo’s comments, the way he looked at Garrett, the way he talked about protecting him in such a casual, matter-of-fact way warmed him up to Corvo. Made him feel needed and loved. Corvo had had so many opportunities to kill Garrett already. What harm could be brought with a couple more days of trust and watchful waiting?

“How is it powered?” Garrett finally asked after a moment of silence. “Anything that can be removed to cut it off?”

“Whale oil - big blue canisters on its back. That’s not an option, either, if you were planning on trying to remove them from it. If you drop those things even a little too quickly, they’ll explode and kill you.”

Garrett thought for a moment, idly rubbing the stubble that had sprouted up on his face. There _had_ to be a way to safely dispatch it, but Corvo had already stated that it was dangerous to get too close. That applied even when they would seek to rewire it; presumably, it would attack even if there appeared to be no obvious ill-intent. Unless....

Those Clockwork Soldiers seemed, to Garrett, to have an awfully high centre of gravity. They were much heavier on the top, with most of their mechanical components and power supplies stored around the upper torso and shoulders, as if they were meant to be easily toppled.

“I have an idea,” Garrett finally said, stopping in his tracks. Corvo turned to look at him, his head cocked quizzically. 

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed,” Garrett said. “We could trip it. Try to get it on its front and take advantage of that vulnerability?”

It wasn’t the best plan he had ever come up with, but what else were they supposed to do, in such a small space, with so few resources and precious lives to protect? He watched Corvo as he ran a hand over his face and frowned for a moment, thinking.

“Yes. It would be safer than trying to attack it head-on. But how do we trip it? It’s not like one of us can stand there with our foot out.”

Garrett felt himself growing red, and when he responded he had to fight to keep his voice low. “No, of course not. But if we could find something - wire, anything - we could string it across its path. Wait for it to fall by itself.”

It sounded stupid when he said it out loud, but it was the best he could think of in his compromised state. Slowly, after several seconds, Corvo raised his eyebrows and nodded. “And then we can get relatively safe access to the wiring panel. That’s a good plan. I like it.”

Garrett found himself relaxing in relief, but promptly cursed himself for it. When had he started to care what Corvo thought of him? He had never found himself hung up on what anyone else thought; if he did, he wouldn’t be a thief as he was. So where did this come from?

_And where to get wire?_

A memory of the smell of fresh dirt and the sounds of shouting jumped to his mind. Not two nights ago, when one of their own had been found pinned to the inside of the garden shed via a garden fork through the neck, and Garrett had been attacked by Jindosh, pinned to the ground by Lucy. They had used garden twine to bind Jindosh then. It was, realistically, the best thing they had, and if they used several lengths of the stuff, it could, realistically, be enough to trip the automaton, provided it came as a surprise. If they took their time, they could string it across the hallway outside the bedrooms, tie the ends to the heavy furniture inside, and wait for the Clockwork to fall prey to their trap.

It was crude, but it was worth a shot.

“Come with me,” Garrett said, ignoring Corvo’s bewildered expression. “I have a plan.”

Corvo offered no resistance to Garrett’s sudden inspiration, and followed him dutifully through the house, down the stairs, out into the hot afternoon air and into the shed. Garrett ducked beneath the fork still sticking out of the wall, grabbed the twine that had been hastily discarded in the rush of the other night, and hurried back upstairs, carefully avoiding the sound of the Clockwork’s feet on the floor upstairs. Garrett knew, from observing the Clockwork’s movements and patrols, that they had a limited amount of time left before it returned to the corridor outside the bedrooms. They had to work quickly. 

“Follow me,” Garrett prompted, gesturing for Corvo to enter one of the bedrooms with him, then knelt down by one of the legs of the bed and tied a secure knot in the rope around it. He tugged at it once, testing its strength, then tied another knot, for good measure. “Take this.” He handed the ball of twine to Corvo, who looked at it, confused, then gestured for him to enter the room on the opposite side of the corridor. Corvo obliged.

“Garrett, what’s—”

“We’re going to use the twine to trip it,” Garrett said, kneeling down by the bed and tying the twine to the leg of the bed in a way that was almost identical to the one in the other room. “It needs to be very secure. We’re going to run this between the rooms several times to try to make it as tight as possible.” He gave the twine a tug, like he had done with the other bed, and tightened it, making the line as taut as it would go. “It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

Corvo nodded, looking as if he were still trying to understand what was going on, then finally got up and began to pile furniture on top of the bed. Garrett nodded and thanked Corvo - indeed, the extra weight on the bed would go a long way to ensuring it wouldn’t slip across the floor when the Clockwork walked into - and then tripped over it. Garrett continued to work fervently, all too aware of their dwindling time, running the twine between the two rooms, tying extra knots in the rope at the legs of the beds to reinforce the strength of the trap, while Corvo finished placing as much heavy furniture as possible on top of the beds. When they were done, Garrett took a moment to get up, stretch, then hurried across the corridor and closed the door on the other side. By now, he could clearly hear the heavy footsteps of the Clockwork as it made its way up the stairs. It was almost upon them.

“In here,” Garrett said, grabbing Corvo by the arm and hauling him into the second bedroom. He pushed Corvo out of the way as soon as they were both safe, turned, then closed the door behind him as quietly as he could possibly manage. It seemed that most of the doors in this house creaked and groaned to some degree, but they had to make do with what they had. He crouched, trying to catch his breath without _gasping_ for air, and stayed close to the door, listening carefully for the footsteps as they worked their way down the corridor.

Silence.

The Clockwork came so close that Garrett could hear the whirring of its gears as it crept onwards. Corvo crouched in the corner of the room, looking unsure of whether he should hide or try to protect Garrett, then settled on neither. If the Clockwork somehow found out that they were hiding just beyond those flimsy walls, if its nature had somehow changed from the passive apathy the day before, if they somehow made too much of a noise or if someone else in the house somehow came along and tripped before the Clockwork did…

A quick flare of Focus let Garrett see what was going on. The automaton was still a few paces away, scanning the area with its cameras, searching, searching…

This had been a stupid idea. The realisation hit Garrett like a horse.

What would they do when it fell over?

What if they had somehow prompted a change from neutral to attack mode?

Two steps. Two steps.

He could see through the door now that it was almost upon the trap. He closed his eyes and scrunched his fists up, his mouth dry.

One step.

There was an almighty _crash_ from outside the room. The twine snapped taut. The bed, piled high with furniture, juddered sickeningly, screeching as it scraped across the floor.

Garrett glanced around to look at Corvo, who stared back at him with wide eyes, then followed him as he jumped up, slammed the door open, and bore down on the Clockwork Soldier now splayed out across the floor, limbs akimbo, its left foot still trapped beneath the twine.

“What now?” Garrett shouted, barely managing to keep the panic from rising shrill in his voice. As he stepped back, Corvo launched himself at the Clockwork, pinning it to the ground, wrestling with it as it fought to climb back to its feet. “Corvo!”

Corvo didn’t respond, but grunted as he struggled with the Clockwork, his arms hooked around its head as it rolled onto its back, now pinning Corvo beneath it. Its blades flashed dangerously close to Garrett as he backed off, terrified, ready to run.

Something caught his eye, lying on the ground some distance away.

The rewire kit.

He had to get it. He _had_ to help Corvo before the Cockwork gained the upper hand. He leapt forwards, dodging the combined mass of Corvo and the Clockwork as they rolled across the floor, still fighting with each other. A blade lashed out and missed Garrett’s ankle by inches, and he canted forwards, missing another limb as it extended across the floor. 

“Garrett!”

He ignored the pleas, stepping around the pair as they fought with each other. Corvo looked like he was attempting to strangle the Clockwork or pull its head off, but it seemed entirely unfazed. It continued trying to clamber to its feet, but Corvo pushed back, shifting his body weight to change the centre of gravity, long enough that it would topple to the floor each time. 

Garrett grabbed the rewire kit and, after grabbing Corvo’s attention with a shout, tossed it to him once he was sure Corvo would be able to safely catch it. He was covered in sweat, his hands shrieking against the slick body of the Clockwork as he grappled with it, trying to find a solid handhold, his face bright red with exertion. He reached out, catching the rewire kit with one hand, then finally, _finally_ slapped it down on the body of the automaton and pressed a button on the side.

The Clockwork _sparked_ , shooting bright white light across the hallway. It convulsed for a moment, then fell still.

Garrett panted, leaning heavily against the wall with one hand, his head down, staring at the floor, his mouth still dry, his heart racing. Corvo took a moment, then rolled off the Clockwork and stopped still, staring up into the ceiling.

Then he stirred, looked up at Garrett, finally made eye contact, and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for the long wait. I kind of fell off the train, but I have the next chapter completed so that should be out soon. Shout-out to Haethel and Squonk for proof-reading my chapter!
> 
> As a side-note, I hope you are all well and have a peaceful and happy new year :)


	17. Day 5, The Wanton Flesh: Part 2

Corvo hadn’t really thought about it during the fight with the Clockwork, but now that he was safe and the adrenaline had worn off, it struck him as very odd that nobody else in the house had come to investigate the noise. Although his mind still buzzed from this small victory, the euphoria of having beaten the automaton without even getting  _ hurt _ still making him feel warm and content, he still tried to remind himself that the war wasn’t won yet. A battle had been won, but that was all it had been - a battle. There were still other things to overcome before they were truly out of the woods.

Garrett, however, seemed worried. He was easily startled - even more so than usual - flinched at small, unexpected sounds, took glances over his shoulder on the regular, looking for anything that might have been creeping out of the dark. Corvo couldn’t help but notice that Garrett shivered beneath his leathers, although he tried so valiantly to hide it. The weather outside was still stiflingly warm, and the house did little to keep the heat out. 

They had dragged the Clockwork into one of the bedrooms and left it there after Corvo had deactivated it with the rewire kit. It seemed that there was no possibility that it would recover again, and Corvo hoped that it had fried its circuits completely, putting it out of action permanently. Still, he was reluctant to try to destroy it physically; it wasn’t unknown for some engineers to booby-trap their devices as a final insult to those who destroyed their creations. Corvo doubted Jindosh was above an underhand tactic like that.

They headed towards the ballroom, leaving the mess behind them in the hallway. The sparks had burnt dark grey patches into the carpet and walls, and there were deep slashes in the carpet where its blades had sprung out in self-defence. Corvo had seen those blades slice clean through flesh before, cutting sinew, muscle and bone, and it terrified him how close he had come to falling victim to those blades. Nevertheless, he tried to expel the thoughts from his mind.

“Are you alright?” he finally asked Garrett, stopping them both and looking down into his eyes, concerned. “You’re cold.”

Garrett shook his head. “It’s nothing. It’s not cold in here.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

Corvo narrowed his eyes and surveyed Garrett carefully. “You’re shivering.”

Garrett rolled his eyes and tried to continue onwards, ignoring Corvo’s continued fussing, but he was promptly stopped again by Corvo, who bent down slightly and studied his face carefully.

“What will it take to get you to leave me alone?” Garrett finally asked, tearing himself away from Corvo’s gaze. “I told you I’m fine.”

“I thought we were over this, Garrett,” Corvo said. He had tried, but failed to suppress the annoyance and hurt in his voice. “You’re pale, shivering, sweating. You’re not well, but you won’t tell me, for some reason. Even when it’s painfully obvious.”

Garrett glared at him, before turning and heading back to where Corvo had stopped in the corridor. “Even if that  _ is _ the case, what do you want me to do about it?”

Corvo reached for Garrett’s hands, but once they made contact, he recoiled at how cold they were. He dropped them abruptly. It was like Garrett’s hands had been replaced with blocks of ice. He needed to warm Garrett up, especially if he was shivering on such a warm afternoon, clad in heavy leather armour.

“Take a few hours out,” Corvo finally said after some consideration. “Draw a bath. See if you can warm yourself up and calm down. I’ll see you in the laundry room afterwards, if you want to meet again?”

Garrett seemed taken aback by the suggestion. He paused for a moment, then suddenly looked very nervous, shuffling where he stood, eyes cast down. 

“If this is about the boiler, I’m fairly sure there’s a backup somewhere. They wouldn’t leave us without hot water.” 

_ But they would kill us all anyway, right? _

Stupid thought.

Garrett shuffled again, muttered a barely audible “okay,” then slowly moved off, turning where he stood in the corridor, making his way back towards the bathroom near where they had defeated the Clockwork. Corvo, puzzled by this behaviour, called out in one final attempt to find out what was wrong.

“What’s wrong, Garrett?”

Garrett turned and cocked his head at Corvo. “We don’t know if the murderer is still running around here, and I don’t want to be alone. If someone attacked me, I’d stand no chance.”

That was something that Corvo hadn’t really considered when he made the suggestion. He kept trying to remind himself of their tenuous position, the uncertainty of who to look out for, and it made sense that Garrett might want to stick with someone he trusted. But…

“Oh… Of course,” he had to fight to keep the glee in his voice hidden. “That’s fine, I can wait outside the bathroom for you to finish and then we can go back to the laundry room together!”

Garrett narrowed his eyes and glared at Corvo. “If someone’s already hiding in there, then that won’t do much good, will it?”

“I mean,” Corvo said before he had properly thought through what he was going to say. “No. But, you know…”

Garrett sighed, frustrated. It seemed like he was fighting a greater battle in his own head, with his own feelings, than fighting to get Corvo to understand what he meant. “I trust you to turn your back when I change.”

“Oh! Of course!” Suddenly it all made a lot more sense. Garrett really  _ did _ just want the protection, and nothing more. Corvo stifled a laugh to himself, then reigned it in and composed himself. Garrett, from across the hallway, was still looking at him with narrowed eyes, and then he raised an eyebrow. “I just have to do  _ one _ thing first, Garrett. Are you coming?”

Garrett shrugged, but followed him anyway as he turned and headed towards the ballroom. The clock by the front door and the rainbow light filtering through the stained glass made it clear that it was getting late now - a concept that made Corvo’s stomach churn. Nobody had died yet today. If someone was going to die (and he hoped that this wasn’t the case, having dispatched the Clockwork Soldier already), then there was limited time left in the day to do it. 

The music in the ballroom had changed from a jazzy, upbeat song to a much slower one. The shouting from inside the room had quietened down, leaving the scratchiness of the record and the sounds of footsteps all too clear in the warm evening air, the smell of smoke and alcohol hanging low and heavy on Corvo’s lungs as he walked in. Garrett, unwilling to meet once again with the rest of the house guests, hid behind the door, just out of sight, standing prepared for anyone who might suddenly come down the corridor, ready to shout a warning.

Corvo himself wasn’t so surprised to see the state of the occupants of the ballroom. It seemed that they had long devolved into separate drunken stupors. Jindosh, who had been drunk several hours ago when Corvo came to check up on them, was still sitting in his chair, his shirt on back-to-front, wearing a plastic crown that he had found somewhere. Most of the bottles around his feet were now long empty, his face flushed, barely staying awake, drooping over on himself. 

What  _ really  _ surprised him, however, was Lucy and Giovanni.

They stood in front of the fireplace together, locked in each other’s arms. They swayed gently with the music, surprisingly still in time with the tempo, slow as it was. Lucy’s head had fallen back against her shoulder, and Giovanni’s face was  _ uncomfortably _ close to her neck, her head in one of his hands, the other hand rubbing her lower back. Lucy was smiling, one side of her face illuminated orange from the fire, her own arms enclosing Giovanni’s torso as if trying to give him a hug, but she kept slipping. Nearly falling.

They were both as drunk as each other. It made Corvo sick to see three previously functional people, as terrible as some of them were, now seemingly giving up. It didn’t seem that they cared about what would happen to them at all; rather, they seemed to have accepted their fate.

Corvo had entered with the intention of telling them that the Clockwork had been downed, but instead, he left without a word. It seemed that nobody had seen him enter or leave.

Truly, this was goodbye.

“Come on,” he muttered to Garrett as he marched back out of the room and up the grand staircase again. “Let’s go run a bath.”

Garrett said nothing, but allowed Corvo to lead him back to the bathroom, unquestioning.

<hr>

Steam filled the air as water poured hot from the taps into the pool-like bath, swirling in great clouds of white as they hit the cooler air of the bathroom and clashed in translucent waves. Soap frothed and bubbled as the water poured over it, quickly obscuring the intricate stone mosaic at the bottom of the bath, gushing over the raised seating area and into the deeper levels, splashing small droplets over the edge of the bath and onto the tiled flooring. Corvo had removed his shoes at the door and locked it behind him as soon as he had been able to confirm that the bathroom was, indeed, free of assassins or hidden murderers, and once he had made sure the bath was running properly, he took himself to a wooden bench near the windows and observed the sun as it set, down past the horizon.

Something about the scene felt peaceful to Corvo, despite the circumstances. It might simply have been the apparent  _ normalcy _ of sitting in a bathroom, running a tub of water, smelling the perfumed soaps as they mingled with the water and feeling the warm dampness of steam in the air. It might also have been the remnants of the elation at dispatching the Clockwork Soldier, or seeing Lucy, Giovanni and Jindosh in relative peace. Whatever it was, his stomach grew warm with contentment, past the hunger, and it allowed him to truly relax - a rare comfort here.

He wasn’t quite sure why he had taken his boots off; they weren’t exactly dirty as he hadn’t spent much time outside in the past few days. It just felt  _ right _ . He removed his waistcoat as well, while the steam continued to warm him up beyond a comfortable temperature and made him sweat. When he glanced over at Garrett, he often found the little thief already observing him from his side of the room, but he always glanced away, apparently pretending he hadn’t been looking.

Corvo stifled a smile as he looked back out the window, across the western end of the Estate District. He knew that Garrett tried very, very hard not to bring attention to himself, tried to keep a low profile, but the way he acted was far too endearing to Corvo. He was good at hiding in tight spaces, in dark nooks and crannies away from prying eyes, but when he tried to hide in plain sight, to avoid drawing attention to himself in the presence of other people, he failed hopelessly.

It occurred to Corvo that that might just be the effect Garrett had on him. It didn’t really matter either which way. Garrett was painfully bad at hiding his feelings, and Corvo loved him all the more for it. It was adorable.

“I’m changing now,” Garrett finally said, after checking the temperature of the water, satisfied with the heat. “You can turn away.”

Corvo nodded in response and averted his eyes, covering them with both of his hands and turning away for good measure. The sound of leather rustling was quiet but audible over the sound of dripping taps and the lapping of the water at the edges of the sunken pit, then the splashes as Garrett lowered himself into the water. 

Garrett sighed in contentment, then called out to Corvo. “You can look now.”

Corvo uncovered his eyes as instructed, blinking against the light spilling into the room from the windows. It took a moment for him to find Garrett through the steam clouding his view, and Garrett was so pale that he hardly stood out from it at all. If his hair weren’t as dark as it was, it might have taken Corvo significantly longer to find him. It stood out against the pale whiteness, a shock of black hair peppered with silver strands, matched only by the dark circles beneath his eyes and the iris of his left eye, even darker still. Corvo felt  _ weird _ looking for Garrett while he was in such a vulnerable state, like he was breaching some unspoken expectation of privacy, but he was so captivating in his looks, his physique, that once he found him with his gaze, it was hard to let go. 

He was thin, yes, but not emaciated as he had looked before. His cheekbones still stood out against his thin cheeks, his collarbones were visible through his skin, and his jaw was as sharp as it ever had been, but compared to that sick slip of a man he’d known back in the City, he looked almost healthy.

Save for the scar running down the right side of his face, down, down from his forehead and beyond his neck, fading out at the clavicle.

The question,  _ ‘what happened?’, _ still burned in his mind. From this distance, through all that steam, he really shouldn’t have been able to see the scar, white and faded as it was, yet he did. Like it drew his attention.

Garrett, ignoring Corvo’s gaze, ducked beneath the water and resurfaced seconds later, rubbing at his hair, trying to remove the dirt that had built up there in the absence of a bath. He dipped again, once, then twice, rinsing it out again and again, then after a third time he finally sat back, apparently satisfied with the effect. There was no soap within reach, but it didn’t seem to bother him all that much. The bath soap that had bubbled up when it came into contact with the hot water seemed to have done its job already. 

Corvo could tell that Garrett was still trying to avoid looking at him as he washed himself off, rubbing himself down with the palms of his hands. His hair looked a lot sleeker and softer now it had been washed. It cascaded down the back of his neck and over his shoulders, framing his face in black. 

He stopped. Corvo noticed that he had been watching Garrett a little too closely, and backed off, turning his head, fiddling with his hands and stared down at the floor.

“Stop that,” Garrett said abruptly, after some time.

“Stop what?”

“You’re making it weird.”

Making it weird? Garrett should have  _ known _ that it would be weird, as if things between them weren’t weird enough as it already was. “Do you want me to leave?”

Garrett furrowed his eyebrows and chewed anxiously on the inside of his cheek, then shook his head. “No. Don’t go. Just…”

Corvo waited, allowing Garrett the time to decide what he wanted to do.

“Just stay here. Is there any soap?”

Corvo got up dutifully and walked to the cupboard in the corner with bathing supplies, searching for a bar of soap. He came up after a couple of minutes with an oblong orange-pink bar about the size of his palm. Peach-scented soap. He loved this stuff.

He turned and tossed it to Garrett, who promptly dropped it in the tub and ducked beneath the surface to retrieve it. Corvo laughed as he returned to his seat, amused by Garrett’s clumsiness. He was a  _ thief _ , for the Void’s sake! It was his job to be sneaky and sly and quiet, yet he couldn’t catch a bar of soap without dropping it. He laughed even more at the sight of Garrett as he surfaced yet again, hair cascading over his face now, obscuring it like some kind of mythical water creature.

“What?” Garrett asked after he pushed the wet hair out of his face and cocked his head. “What’s so funny?”

“You, just… just dropping stuff everywhere.”

“I don’t drop stuff everywhere?” Garrett didn’t sound hurt, but confused.

“You dropped  _ that _ ,” Corvo said, gesturing to the bar of soap.

“I dropped it in the bath, not  _ everywhere. _ And I wasn’t prepared. You didn’t give me any warning. You can’t expect me to catch something if you don’t give me warning.”

Corvo laughed again and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you tell yourself that.”

Garrett looked disgruntled, but ignored the comment, smelled the bar and rubbed the soap between his hands until it reached a lather, then massaged it into his skin. He didn’t mention the smell of that soap to Corvo, but he could tell that he enjoyed it still; mostly because he closed his eyes while rubbing it in and a small smile graced his mouth. 

“That good?” Corvo asked, once again failing to avert his eyes from Garrett as he ducked beneath the water and rinsed off the excess soap.

Garrett said nothing at first, but nodded and leant back, sighing, eyes drooping. “Perhaps you should get in and try it, too.” He sat up abruptly and gasped, clasping a hand over his mouth. 

Clearly, that hadn’t meant to come out. Corvo nearly doubled over in laughter as Garrett went bright red in the bath and sank down into the water until only his eyes were visible above the surface. He looked like he wanted to disappear, but Corvo kept laughing, his eyes watering.

“Want to say that again?” Corvo finally asked once he collected himself. When Garrett failed to respond, Corvo continued. “Want me to leave?”

One shake of the head.

“Want me to get in?”

There was a very long pause that hung heavy in the air. Then, finally, a slight nod of the head. Garrett’s eyes followed Corvo as he stood up by the bench, reached down and pulled his socks off, followed by most of the rest of his clothing. Now, it appeared, it was his turn to feel shy. He turned away slightly, obscuring Garrett’s line of view as he finally took off his undershirt and shuffled over to the bath, leaving his underwear on. Garrett scooted away from Corvo as he clambered in, putting enough space between them that they’d be able to relax without thinking too hard about it.

Corvo groaned and leant backwards, feeling his muscles loosen as the hot water warmed him up. It had been far too long since he’d managed to have a proper bath, since he’d had time to sit back and fully enjoy it, unburdened by appointments and meetings with his council. There was a pang of guilt as he remembered that, by now, most of his council was dead, but he shooed the thought away, trying to focus on his and Garrett’s survival.

Garrett looked like he was hiding at the opposite end of the bath. He had risen slightly above the water again, no longer shrouded in white bubbles, but he was still sitting low. Corvo looked around for the peach soap that he had thrown to Garrett earlier and found it on the side, so he busied himself by rubbing it into a lather as Garrett had done, and rinsed himself off. He ducked beneath the water, running his hands through his hair to wet it through, then surfaced and began to rub soap through his hair. 

“Outsider’s  _ balls _ , I needed that,” Corvo said. The act of simply washing himself seemed to have taken a weight off his shoulders all by itself, despite the bad situation. He leant his head back against the lip of the pit, on the tiled floor by his head, watching the last remnants of sunlight disappear beyond the horizon, leaving them in a dull twilight blue.

“We could just stay here,” he continued, staring out beyond the barred windows and across the Estate District. “We could lock ourselves in and we might just survive. Maybe they’ll run out of patience and leave. Maybe they’ll be forced to find someone else to murder. Maybe we can escape to a sunny part of Serkonos and leave it all behind.”

That was enough to draw Garrett from his silence. There was a quiet snort, and Corvo looked over at him quickly. Garrett was smiling down into the tub, quietly amused in his own little way.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Garrett finally said. “The thought of leaving this place is… strange.”

“Like a fantasy?”

Garrett nodded, but said no more. They sat together in silence as the steam eventually faded from the air and the water grew much cooler, and before long, Garrett was sat next to Corvo, his head on his shoulder. It had taken him so long to shuffle up next to him, to bless Corvo with his presence. This time, he seemed so much more secure, unlike the night before. He wasn’t hysterical. There was no panic, no anxiety, no looming sense of dread. As the anxiety had melted away with the heat in the bath, so had the tension in his body. His hands were no longer cold. Garrett’s body relaxed into Corvo’s as the stars appeared in the night sky, beyond those barred rainbow windows.

Corvo took the opportunity to play with Garrett’s hair as he had done before, running the strands through his fingers, gently massaging his scalp, stroking his neck with the back of his fingers. As he worked, Garrett settled slowly, relaxing back into the crook of Corvo’s arm, eyes half-closed, breathing even, looking so at peace with the world that Corvo might otherwise have assumed he had fallen asleep. From here, he could see Garrett’s scar even clearer now, down the front of his right clavicle and the side of his neck, and almost subconsciously, his fingers moved to the whitened, sunken skin and brushed it absentmindedly.

There was no response from Garrett. Hs eyes opened for a moment, presumably in surprise at Corvo’s fingers in such a sensitive area, but he let it go, allowed Corvo to continue studying it, running his fingers up and down, up and down.

“I don’t want to repeat last night,” Corvo said, as gently as he possibly could, and he felt Garrett tense beneath his hands. “Get as cosy as you want, but we shouldn’t try anything like that until we’re both safe again.”

What Corvo  _ really _ wanted to say was that he wasn’t comfortable participating in sexual activity unless he was  _ absolutely sure _ that Garrett was emotionally capable of making the best decision for himself, but he didn’t want to sound condescending, either. He was sure that Garrett was more than capable of looking out for himself, but it seemed wrong when Garrett was so emotional.

Garrett opened his eyes and nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said, then returned to the space between Corvo’s chest and arm.

So they left it at that.

Several more minutes passed, and Corvo found himself slowly dropping off to sleep, one arm around Garrett’s shoulders, the other sitting by his leg in the water, the last of the bubbles crowding around their torsos. He was woken by Garrett stirring beneath his arm, turning to face him. Still half-asleep, he accepted the kiss from Garrett despite his better judgement, and lost himself in the softness of his lips. It wasn’t going to ‘go’ anywhere - they had both agreed on that already - but a calm, collected moment together, enjoying the warm water and celebrating their closeness despite everything, was enough to keep Corvo quiet.

For some time they sat there in silence, sharing each other. Corvo gladly held Garrett in his arms, drawing his thumb up and down by Garrett’s shoulder blade, running his fingers up his neck and into the base of his skull, playing with the hair now drying out on top. He lost himself in the thief, focused on the warmth of his face against Garrett’s, his body (however bony) against Corvo’s, the needy hunger now threatening to eat him whole…

Corvo broke it off abruptly, shuffling away from Garrett. He had passed a threshold with that animal  _ want _ that had taken over so quickly, a threshold that he was unwilling to pass, so he smiled sadly at Garrett and shrugged.

“Sorry, your time’s run out. Insert another coin to resume.”

Garrett scoffed and rolled his eyes, although he smiled at the joke. It seemed that he understood why Corvo was declining to go any further, even though Garrett was clearly feeling the same, evidenced by his uncomfortable squirming. Corvo chuckled and shuffled away, finally making to clamber back out of the bath, the small pit in the ground, and idly made conversation as he found a towel in the bath supply cupboard.

“You know, I had a thought. There are seven Strictures.”

Garrett looked up at him after a moment, nonplussed. “And?”

“Four of the Strictures have already been” —he struggled to find the right word— “fulfilled. That means there are three left.”

“Yes?”

“But there are also five of us left in the house. Assuming one of us isn’t already going around killing people, maybe the intention was never to kill all of us. Maybe some of us still have a chance.”

Garrett looked up at Corvo, his eyes suddenly much brighter. Corvo didn’t want to have to get his, or Garrett’s, hopes up unless it was necessary, but in his eyes it was a valid point. Three extra victims out of five meant that two of them would still be able to leave in one piece, but if they wanted it to be them, they would have to stick together.

His mind went back to how Lucy, Giovanni and Jindosh had treated him when he had gone to see them earlier that day. If they wanted to stay alive, they’d have to keep an eye out for them, too. It simply wasn’t an option to end up murdered by anyone else because of resentment.

Corvo turned. “Garrett, I think—”

An earth-shattering  _ crash _ rocked the room. 

Corvo instinctively reached out to grab Garrett, pulling him out of the bath as quickly as he could by his arm. The blast had rocked through the house, the sound shockwave so strong that it had nearly knocked Corvo off-balance. He looked around, mouth dry, eyes wide, prompting Garrett to grab a bathrobe from the supplies cupboard. He took one, then two unsteady steps to the window and looked out across the Estate District, searching for trouble.

Fires were springing up across the city. He could see, out on the other side of the Wrenhaven, the smallest orange tongues of flame begin to lick up the sides of buildings, of homes, of shops. He jumped back from the window and turned back to Garrett, who was just about ready to go.

The sound of chanting stopped him in his tracks. Screams could be heard faintly through the window.

_ “Restrict the Wanton Flesh. Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire.” _

Garrett looked at him, horrified. The Wanton Flesh? Had the Overseers of the Abbey been watching them this entire time, waiting for them to relax enough to hold each other for a minute, and then strike terror into them? Was an attack about to be sprung?

The Abbey had always been strict about sex, abhorring the concept of sexual congress outside of established relationships. The rules weren’t clear-cut like those ones pertaining to worship of the Outsider, but Corvo wouldn’t take chances in a position like this. When he was Emperor, sure. What else would they be able to do? But now, when he was at their mercy, and  _ Garrett _ was too, even more so than Corvo…

_ “What avail is the concourse of a prostitute? The attention of a loose companion? Nothing. And what of the fruit of such unions? Only sorrow is born, only misery is multiplied; within these things, the Outsider dwells." _

“Go!” Corvo shouted, following Garrett out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind them as he passed the threshold, leaving the water to swiftly go cold without being drained. His heart thumped in his mouth as he followed Garrett, directing him, keeping him at arm’s reach  _ just in case _ , and chased him down the grand staircase, tripping over their own feet in their haste, failing to notice that one of the bedroom doors was hanging wide open on the way.

They burst into the ballroom together. Garrett still gripped the bathrobe tight around his body, fighting with the cord, Corvo’s own clothes pulled on back-to-front or inside-out in the rush to get dressed. Jindosh still sat in his chair at the other end of the room, apparently asleep, his mouth hanging open, but there was no sign of Giovanni or Lucy.

“Come on,” Corvo said, gesturing for Garrett to follow him closely. This was, without a doubt, the worst part of this game, this  _ fucking act _ that had been put on for them all to suffer. Finding the bodies was the hardest one of them all.

The chanting eventually trailed off as Corvo and Garrett searched through room after room. The screams from the city of Dunwall didn’t fall quiet, but increased in volume. The pair slammed open door after door, searching every room they could possibly think of for a body, for a hint of what had happened, of who they had lost.

And eventually they found it.

The door of the bedroom that stood adjacent to the bathroom was cracked open. Corvo held out an arm, barring Garrett from entering the room before he had explored it properly. Garrett obliged, holding back, staying in the safety of the corridor, trembling but trying unsuccessfully to hide it.

Corvo could barely see it through the darkness. A pool of dark blood, already beginning to coagulate, extended across the floor, the carpet beneath stained dark red. The walls were sprayed with blood, the reach extending to each corner of the room, skirting boards, furniture, walls and even the ceiling all dappled in fine flecks. 

His breath hitched in his throat. There was so much  _ blood. _ It  _ shouldn’t _ have shocked him, not with the number of murders he had already committed in his lifetime, it  _ shouldn’t _ have surprised him to see how much blood the human body could produce, but it did anyway. He was hesitant to investigate the other side of the bed, stepped carefully, slowly, trying to decide whether to risk taking a look or to leave while he still could.

Something drew him forwards anyway. He was shaking. Uncontrollably.

Corvo found Lucy’s and Giovanni’s corpses lying on the floor at the other side of the bed, wreathed in red, limbs intertwined, peppered with stab wounds. They weren’t quite fully undressed; Lucy still wore her undershirt and trousers, while Giovanni was stripped down to a vest, underwear and socks, but it seemed clear to Corvo that they had been jointly stripping. They didn’t look like they had been fighting with each other; on the contrary, their bodies were relaxed, their faces serene. Neither of the bodies bore bruises or bite marks, but the room smelled vaguely like alcohol, beyond the stench of iron. 

The marks in their torsos were quite clearly made by a sharp instrument. Corvo was reluctant to look any closer at the scene, but a glance combined with the knowledge he had collected during all his years as a wielder of a blade told him that the attack had been frenzied, and the weapon had not been much wider than a couple of inches. The injuries didn’t look deep enough to extend through the body and out the other side, but the last thing he wanted to do was to get up closer to confirm his suspicions.

A suicide pact?

If so, then why were they only half-dressed? And why stab each other multiple times, when there were easier methods?

And where was the offending weapon? A cursory look around the room failed to yield any evidence of the weapon’s whereabouts. There were no footsteps in the blood, no sign of disturbance. It would be perplexing if it weren’t also so terrifying.

The air smelled thickly of iron. It almost choked him. He tore his eyes away from the scene and stumbled out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, leaning back against the wall, sinking down and breathing heavily to coax himself out of a swiftly-encroaching panic attack.

There was only one knife in the house.

Corvo gripped his head in his hands, balling his fists up in his hair until it  _ hurt _ . An agonised scream fought to break from his throat, fighting against his own lack of breath at the  _ horror _ of it all, the viciousness of the murders, the bleak outlook that he and Garrett had dispelled only minutes ago, together, in the bath.

“Corvo?”

Garrett’s voice was breathy and quiet as he called out to Corvo from across the hallway. 

Not now.  _ Not now, he didn’t have time. _

“Corvo?”

Energy felt like it was bubbling from his skin into his core, poisoning him, making him sick from the inside-out.

_ “Corvo?!” _

Garrett sounded almost hysterical now, but Corvo didn’t possess the energy to tell him  _ gently _ that he was preoccupied right now. Instead, he looked up at Garrett, his eyes blurry with panic, and found an equally terrified face staring back at him. He was pale.  _ Much _ paler than usual. Like he was a ghost.

“Corvo,” Garrett managed to say after some work, gripping the wall as if holding himself up, as if injured. “The Clockwork’s gone.”

_ What? _

“Huh?” Corvo grunted, still balling his fists into his hair. It wasn’t possible. This had to be a nightmare. Garrett stifled tears as he continued.

“That Clockwork that _we_ _knocked out_ is _missing_. It’s _gone_ from the bedroom and we can’t— _I can’t_ — _”_

The room felt like it was spinning around him, and suddenly it all made sense to Corvo. Jindosh had been holding a knife. The Clockwork had disappeared, presumably reactivated. He had been missing for most of the murders, only to turn up some time later, avoiding the fallout.

They had been right all along.

And now it was them against him.


End file.
